


a thrill that I have never known

by Mellow_Yellow



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Angst, Arranged Marriage, First Time, M/M, Pining, Religion, Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-10-31 13:25:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 75,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10900269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mellow_Yellow/pseuds/Mellow_Yellow
Summary: Sidney always knew his family would pick who he ended up with. It was how things were done, and no matter what the outside world thought, he'd never questioned it before because it was just the reality: ice was frozen, getting checked against the boards knocked the wind out of you, one day Sid would be matched to someone his parents and the matchmaker and his aunts and uncles and his community thought was the best fit for him. And best of all, Sidney wouldn't have to worry about it. He would just focus on hockey. He'd deal with it one day. Eventually.'One day' had seemed so much farther away when he was younger.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> long-time lurker, first-time poster in the weird and wonderful world of hockey rpf, and I'm pretty anxious about it so everybody be cool. this draft was originally titled "holy god hockey rpf mother help me" during its inception, just as a fun detail. read the end notes for disclaimers if you're a stickler for RPF accuracy (yikes for you, if true).

* 

 

Sidney had never been on a date before. He'd never had the opportunity, obviously, but neither the inclination, really. He'd never really thought about dating as a concept, what it was like, the way it would feel, the rhythm of it, but right in this moment, it was starting to feel like a major oversight.

Across the table at the diner, the guy sitting before him, Tony, nodded at the menu in Sidney's hands.

“I can help you pick out something you’d like,” Tony offered eagerly.

Sidney didn't want to jump to conclusions—his mom and his Aunt Lyanne told him not to rush to judgment with a match. But he also knew in the pit of his soul: this was not the person for him.

He looked down at the menu and back up at Tony. “Why would I need you to help me with that?” he asked, genuinely perplexed. 

Tony flushed. “I just thought. Well. Never mind.” 

It felt like Sidney had missed a beat, plowed right past some kind of symbolic offering. Maybe Tony wasn’t the weird one here; maybe it was Sidney. Maybe he just didn’t know enough about what to expect from a potential match, or the process of matchmaking. Maybe Sidney was misinformed. 

He threw the guy a bone. “You can, um. You can order for me though, if you want.” 

Tony perked up. “Okay, you’ll have the fish.”

Sidney cringed. “No, I meant—you can tell the waitress my order. I want the rosemary chicken.” He hated fish. He was way too picky of an eater to trust some virtual stranger with a culinary power of attorney, but Tony seemed disappointed that Sidney didn’t trust him. He watched an air of unease settle over Tony's face.

Sidney could relate, he thought sourly.

He wondered what the other people in the quiet diner saw when they glanced over at them. Two reasonably attractive young people with expressions of twin discomfort blossoming over their faces, as the shorter one (Sidney) gritted his teeth, prepared to muscle through because he refused to fail his first official date, that was not happening, and the taller willowy one (Tony) raised both eyebrows in alarm, presumably at the stubborn glint in Sidney’s eye. 

It was probably pretty funny from the outside, watching two people realize they were trapped on a sinking ship, simultaneously, in real time.

“Do you watch hockey?” Sidney half-asked, half-pleaded. It felt like an easy softball. The guy was Canadian, from Ontario, maybe, Sidney thought, and he’d been matched with Sidney. No way he didn’t like hockey. 

“I don’t really...enjoy, well. Organized sports aren’t my thing,” Tony said gingerly. He had the grace to look embarrassed.

For his part, Sidney was sure he looked dismayed to his core. Who didn’t like hockey? Where did the matchmaker _find_  this guy? How had Lyanne let him on the list?

“I’m too focused on my theology really, to have many hobbies.” Tony peered at Sidney hopefully. “Do you read scripture often?” 

“I don’t really have the time,” Sidney replied. “Too focused on my hockey.”

Tony’s brow puckered delicately. “Don’t you think you’ll want a family soon?” 

Sidney bared his teeth in a smile. “Not until I retire.” He enjoyed Tony’s slight recoil and then felt bad for enjoying it.

For his part, Tony looked shaken. “You’re not going to retire once you’re married?”

That was when things really went off the rails. 

Sidney spent the next hour in a sort of rage fugue state until the next thing he knew the date had mercifully ended and he was back at his parents' house. 

His mother ambushed him as soon as he walked through the door. “How was it?”

“Well, it was really bad,” Sidney said, shaking off his coat, inhaling idly. The house in Cole Harbour always smelled the same, even after he'd been away for months and months at a time. It was nice. “But at least it was long.”

He hated watching his mom’s face fall. He felt like he’d failed her. “Oh, Sidney.” 

He slinked to the couch and let himself collapse down onto it. He groaned. “I waited too long. The good ones are already taken. All that’s left are the dregs.”

His mother patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t talk like that. We’re only just getting started. We’ll find you a perfect match.” 

That sounded a little too optimistic to Sidney, but he didn’t argue. Just sighed.

“So forlorn.” His mom cupped his cheeks, rocking his head a little. She was smiling, indulgent. “My forlorn little boy.” 

“He’s not a little boy,” his dad said from the doorway. Both Sidney and his mom straightened and pulled away. 

His dad wasn’t a bully or anything, but he was definitely a serious guy. He guided the family where he saw fit, and he expected his family, his kids, to follow him. 

Especially Sidney. In particular, Sidney. 

Sidney coughed, glancing down. 

“If we’d gotten this squared away before the draft we wouldn’t have to bother with this now and distract from your season.” His dad let the moment stretch out until he must have thought Sidney looked sufficiently chastened, and then redirected, letting the tension drop. “How did the match go?”

“It went,” Sidney said, trying to think of a descriptor that wasn’t too whiny but also didn’t oversell it. He definitely didn’t want Tony to end up on the shortlist. “It went okay.” 

“It doesn’t sound like there was a lot of chemistry there,” his mother added.

“A lot of chemistry comes down to hard work," his dad said confidently. Everything came down to hard with Sidney’s dad. Love, family, hockey, healing from the common cold. It was all a game of mental toughness to him. Most of the time Sidney agreed, but it was harder to see it from that perspective when it was his entire life’s happiness potentially hanging in the balance, matched for eternity to some guy who went weak in the knees at the opportunity to pick out Sidney's meals for him. “You have to be willing to put the time in, really get to know these young people before you decide.”

Sidney thought of how Tony had patted him awkwardly three times on the shoulder before scurrying quickly out of the restaurant. If there was such a thing as negative chemistry, Tony was it.

“I’ll try harder,” he offered regardless. It was a well-worn refrain. It was also one that he couldn’t help but try to live up, gods help his soul. “I’ll work at it.”

His dad looked satisfied for now. He nodded. “Good.” 

Good. Sidney repeated the word to himself a couple of times. Good. He was good. It would all be good. 

He would be on a plane back to Pittsburgh tomorrow, a day and a half all he could squeeze out of the mid-season schedule to come home to meet with the matchmaker, and already he was striking out. Sidney didn't strike out. He pushed through, he tried harder, he worked the program until it worked for him. 

He would just have to try harder. His dad was right. His mother, too. It would happen. It had to.

 

*

 

Zhenya could tell something was wrong with Sid. He could see it the minute Sid stepped onto the ice, looking a little fatigued from a day of traveling back and forth to Nova Scotia for some mysterious reason.

Sid's mood was one of only a handful of things Zhenya could really tell on a dime.

In a lot of ways it felt like he’d been in Pittsburgh for years and years; time passed oddly during a professional hockey season, and sometimes he woke up with a start because he had no idea where he was and everything smelled foreign, and other days he would lounge on his couch and squint, furiously trying to conjure the layout of the old apartment where they used to live in Magnitogorsk before he bought his parents the big house. 

So he learned to live with some things always being out of focus and relegated to the background, and others permanently in sharp definition in his mind's eye.

American driving rules, anything but the immediate progressive tense in English, exploring his neighborhood—these he was content to send to the background for some unforeseeable future when he could pull them back out and figure out the details. 

Other things—conditioning drills, the slang Therrien used during practice, the specific habits of play for his wingers and the rest of his shift, Sidney’s routines and superstitions and particular fussiness, the one shop near Sergei’s house that had the best tacos—he always had at the forefront of his mind.

So when Sidney marched onto the ice, chin tucked down, Zhenya immediately zeroed in and knew: something was off with the guy. 

But it was early, his English always took a little to get going in the mornings, practice was grueling coming off a loss to the Devils, and next thing he knew two hours had passed before he’d had a chance to catch up with Sid and try and figure out why he was holding his entire body so stiffly.

When he found him in the locker room, Sidney was being interrogated by Duper. That alone wasn’t new, as Sidney seemed to have a special tolerance for Duper's brand of overbearing affection, but today he looked frustrated.

“So how was it?” Duper was asking pointedly. 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Sidney grumbled, uncharacteristically moody especially after such a slog of a practice, which usually just served to energize him, the oddball. 

“Come on, you have your first match date and you don’t want to talk about it?” 

Zhenya’s auditory comprehension was always much better than his spoken skills, but even so, he found himself pausing as he pulled off his pads. 

Something was prickling at his brain about what Duper was saying. 

“So did you find the one?” Duper made to poke Sidney in the chest, who just jerked away from the contact irritably. He hated being touched. Even Zhenya and his broken English had absorbed that much.

“Quit it.” Sid was down to his under armor now, and would most likely wander off to change completely soon, in his secret changing room.

“So are you going out again?”

“No,” Sidney said, slowly, like the words were being dragged out against his will. He glared at Duper, then sighed, shoulders going slack. “I have another match tonight, though.”

Duper cackled in apparent delight, but Sidney was already scurrying away, looking harried. Duper watched him go, beaming like Sidney had somehow revealed the best news in the world.

He never changed with the other guys. And now Duper was bugging him about some kind of match. 

Oh.

With agonizing slowness, all the pieces clicked together in his brain.

Zheyna rubbed both hands over his face, embarrassed by himself. What a dumb shit he was, fuck, how in the gods' names had he somehow managed to go more than half a season without realizing that Sidney was orthodox? 

It was probably the language barrier, he told himself. Things were a whirlwind those first few weeks, months really. He couldn’t keep track of a lot of the team dynamics at first. Everything was a blur.

He should have probably noticed something before now, though. Sidney never fully changed in the same room as the guys, Zhenya noted. It was never blatant, but he always found a way to slip away and return fully clothed, and he kept his eyes sharply averted from any and all nudity, of which there was a shit ton in a hockey locker room. And then there was the no-touching thing. That should have been obvious all on its own. 

It had felt familiar, even if Zhenya was too distracted to put it together.

But now, Zhenya paid attention, and when Sidney disappeared and then came back from wherever he holed up to change, he was wearing what looked like a new shirt buttoned up neatly showing off his thick shoulders and neck. He looked good.

“You go on date?” The words were out without Zhenya having to labor to piece them together, for once. A few guys nearby turned in surprise at his question, which, come on. It wasn’t that long of a sentence. 

Sidney faltered. “What?” 

Zhenya gestured at his shirt. “You look...fancy?” He rubbed his thumb and fingers together. “Go out?”

Hunching over now, Sidney began to blush and Zhenya had a feeling he had just said something wrong. Tanger raised his eyebrows meaningfully and said, “He's orthodox, you know.” He was lounging nearby, already dressed, on Sid patrol now that Duper had wandered away to bug some other young guy, his favorite pastime. 

Tanger would wait, Zhenya knew, while Sid finished messing with his hair in the mirror before ushering him out into the world. The way the guys on this team fussed over Sidney was wild. Zhenya could kind of see the way something about Sid made you want to hover. But still, it verged on coddling, and Sid never seemed to mind it. Maybe he was used to it, at home. Orthodox communities were a lot tighter that way. Even Zhenya could remember that.

"Sid doesn't 'date,' come on," Tanger said, still going on. Zhenya couldn’t tell if Tanger was chirping Sidney or what; players made a lot of religious chirps here. Zhenya was careful not to take them at face value. "Orthodox don't do that like normal people."

“What would you know about being orthodox,” Sidney said, rolling his eyes.

The crosstalk in English always got Zhenya turned around if he wasn’t careful, so he refocused, asking Sidney directly, “No date, then?”

“Well.” Sidney swallowed, an immediate tell. “I just had my first one.” 

Tanger whipped around on him. “ _What_?!” He looked ready to keel over. “Why didn't you tell me? Fuck, if you told Duper before me, that's just not buddies, man.” He looked giddy just the same, and moved to wrap Sidney in a hug, but Sidney stepped away. Tanger winced, forgetting himself. 

“Sorry,” Tanger said immediately. “My bad, man. I didn’t mean to—you know, no offense.”

By touching him. Of course, he wasn't supposed to touch him. You didn't just touch a good orthodox boy or girl. Fuck, Zhenya was surprised Sid was even allowed to share a locker room, but then, it was probably unavoidable.

He shook his head lightly, marveling. Everything was clicking now. Gods, he was too dumb to live. Sergei must have been laughing his ass off at him all this time.

"It's okay," Sidney said, shoulders hunched, as Tanger watched him carefully. "You're fine." 

After a long moment, Tanger swallowed. "Seriously though, that's...exciting? Right? That's a good thing?" he asked carefully. "I mean, the whole matchmaking thing, that's happening?"

Sidney shrugged, and Tanger looked intrigued but uneasy.

"It's good, right?" Tanger asked again. "You feel...okay about it?"

"I feel fine," Sid mumbled. It was pretty inappropriate for Tanger to push, but he probably thought he was being open-minded, which showed how little he knew about it.

It was like learning the right conjugation in English. Suddenly the world made sense again. "Pravovernyj," Zhenya said under his breath.

Sidney darted a glance at him, and Tanger huffed.

"You...orthodox," Zhenya said, a little pleased that he pronounced it correctly.

Tanger went immediately defensive. "Yeah, what? That a problem for you?" he asked Zhenya, as though all of a sudden nearly four months into the season Zhenya was about to just let fly with the religious bigotry.

"No problem," Zhenya said. "Is fine."

Tanger still looked ruffled, so Zhenya just stared at him steadily, until he huffed again and turned to Sid. Americans were pretty fucking weird about orthodoxy. It was almost like they were embarrassed by it, the backwardness of it all. 

Not that the orthodox ways in Russia enjoyed a much easier road; they’d been a special target during the Soviet era and it was becoming less and less common to find true pockets of orthodox communities. But at least there was a sense of respect, of history for the centuries of heritage the beliefs contained. People paid lip service to the old ways at the very least. Even Putin trotted out his priesthood lineage on his father’s side to curry traditionalist favor from time to time.

It was more of a fringe movement in the U.S., which Zhenya couldn’t even begin to parse the reason for. Just one of the many mysterious and unknowable ways of the place, he figured. People didn’t even have vinegar on their tables here. It was madness.

He turned to Sidney now, thoughtful. “So you use a...a _svakha_?” He gestured nonsensically with his hands, his English foiling him after his brief triumph earlier. "My uncle a  _svakha._ "

He watched Sidney’s brow pucker as Zhenya waved his hands around. “Oh, you mean a matchmaker?” 

From across the room, Jordy turned to look Zhenya over in surprise. “Wait, are you ortho...?” He trailed off like he didn’t want to cause offense, but Zhenya didn’t know what was so offensive about asking someone if they were orthodox or not. 

North Americans were truly bizarre. 

Zhenya shrugged easily. “We, my family, we...no. My other family—” How the fuck did you say grandparents or uncles in English? Impossible language. “—they are, yes. Very.” His grandmother still led prayers in his family’s old village. Just thinking of the stern lines on her forehead made it so he could almost smell the spicy incense that used to cling to the walls of her apartment. “But not my parents.” 

“You’re lapsed,” Sidney supplied like something was just dawning on him. He looked fascinated, just like Zhenya had felt when it had clicked that Sid was orthodox.

So they were equally dumb at picking up obvious social cues, apparently. 

“Lapsed.” Zhenya tilted his head, considering. Sure, why not. “Okay.” 

“Huh.” Jordy was looking at Zhenya, then at Sid. “So maybe you two guys should just get married.”

Sidney turned immediately and violently red. Zhenya stared at Jordy until he held his hands up in apology, but seriously, what was the guy thinking? So disrespectful.

To his credit, Jordy cringed. “Sorry! Sorry, I really don’t—my family, we’re Presbyterian. I don't know anything about that shit. Stuff. Sorry.”

The locker room was heavy with silence. Sidney was staring at the ground, clearly uncomfortable. Apparently, everyone knew he was orthodox, except for Zhenya until a minute ago, but talking about it directly put everyone on edge. Especially Sidney. Nearby, Duper was making moves, watching Sidney like he was waiting for him to wilt or fall apart. Tanger was frowning, tense.

But Zhenya was hungry as shit and he didn’t really have the time to wade through whatever repressed English-speaking politics were going on. 

“Good luck on match date,” he said slowly, making an effort to say the words right. He nodded rather than trying to touch Sid on the shoulder (he felt strangly relieved to understand now it wasn't that Sid was skittish with him, or that Zhenya was too tactile, Sid was just observant—for some reason that made Zhenya feel less like a bumbling fool) and stepped aside to let him pass.

Sidney was peering at him. “Thanks, Geno,” he said finally. He had an odd expression his face. 

Zhenya nodded again. Sergei was waiting on him now and also making a face, much less pensive and way more annoyed, holding his wrist up to show Zhenya his watch. He was always complaining that Zhenya was late to everything, everywhere, which was only like sixty percent true. He had a point now though, so Zhenya hurried up, aware of the sensation that Sidney was watching him leave with what felt like keen interest.

 

*

 

Sidney was on the phone with his mother and Lyanne the next night, recounting the previous night’s match (Bethany, a painter, probably nice enough but so dreamy she kept losing her train of thought and staring at the way the light caught the light fixture just past Sidney’s ear, and by the end of it he was seventy percent sure she might have a head injury so he found himself subtly going through the concussion protocol with her for several minutes before he realized no, she was just a space cadet, and not only that, she seemed incredibly bored by Sidney as well).

“But she’s got her MFA, Sidney,” Lyanne said coaxingly.

“She didn’t really seem to have it...you know. Together.” He tried not to sound like too much of a brat, but the thought of matching with Bethany permanently made him feel sweaty and out of control. 

“How will you know anything unless you see her again?” his mother asked. "You can't know about a match right away.You barely spent any time with her."

She was a little right; Sidney had barely been able to squeeze in an hour for a late coffee and was also exhausted from practice anyway. Even now, he should be in bed. They flew out early the next morning. He was too restless to try and sleep, though.

“Wouldn’t I get, like, a feeling?” he asked tentatively. “Like you and Dad had. That this was the right person for me.”

His mother sighed on the other end of the phone. He could almost picture her and Lyanne curled up on the old couch as they held the cell phone between them, both intently focused on Sidney’s voice, on his words and future and happiness. 

Even with the pressure of their expectations and the anxiety that he would let them down, he never had to worry they weren't completely on his side. The entire community, really. They'd all given so much for Sidney to get to the big show. 

He felt suddenly homesick, like a hook between his chest.

He liked living with the Lemieux and their kids, and they were incredibly welcoming and Mario especially had made his first season and a half click in a way Sidney doubted they would have without his support.

Still, Sidney sometimes knew Mario looked at him and frowned. Like he was worried about Sidney. But then, Mario and his family were heathens—nonbelievers, he corrected himself. It was rude to call them heathens, even if actual nonbelievers didn’t really seem to care. It just wasn’t done, as his mother would say.

His mother, who was busily talking while Sidney daydreamed like an ungrateful son. Sidney shook himself, hunkering down so he could focus.

“You have to trust the process,” his mother was saying. “Matchmaking has worked for our people for hundreds of years. Thousands even, some say.”

“It’s a better bet,” Lyanne said confidently. “Having the people who know you best, who can find a person who shares the same values, same background. Infatuation comes and goes, but we’ll work to make sure you find someone you can build a strong foundation with, one that lasts after an initial fancy fades.” 

By the time Sidney got off the phone he was resolved. He had another match date the week after next, during a night off after a homestand, and he just needed to get his head right about it.

It felt uncomfortable to be doing this so far away from his community, but even Lyanne (who was mostly running the show in terms of scheduling, as the unofficial family matchmaker who helped Gail, the matchmaker for all of the orthodox community in Cole Harbour, plan Sid's matches) had agreed it couldn’t be helped. They would need to split the difference, most of the matches in Pittsburgh, the rest that they could spare in Cole Harbor. It was the only way. 

He wondered downstairs, hungry like he always was this late in the season, like his body was eating itself, and was digging through the fridge down in the kitchen for the leftover roast chicken when he heard a sigh behind him and yelped, whirling around.

Mario was watching him, smiling wryly. “Did you wake up hungry again?” He looked fond, and Sidney felt noticed. Warm. It was almost like being at home, and he reminded himself to be grateful that he was staying with such a nice family. He’d had less tolerant billet families in the past.

“No, well. Kind of. I just got off the phone with my mom and her cousin and thought I'd have a snack before bed.” 

The smile slid off Mario’s face. Sidney had made the mistake of telling him about Lyanne and her role as the matchmaker for his dad’s family, handed down from Sidney’s great-aunt. It was before Sidney had really understood how little Mario approved of the old ways, of Sidney's family's traditions in general, and especially of matches. 

Mario was watching him closely. “Are they still making you go on those dates?” 

Sidney took out a Tupperware filled with unidentifiable leftovers from a few nights before, he thought maybe roast vegetables and rice, just for something to do with his hands while he turned his back on Mario’s scrutiny.

“No one is making me do anything,” he protested, trying not to sound annoyed. Mario was just trying to help. Sometimes people pushed when they were trying to help. “I’m not being forced into anything.”

“You may not think so now,” Mario said softly, “but someday, maybe even someday soon, you’ll wish you’d had a choice—” 

“What do you think of our shot at the postseason?” It was a clumsy redirection, obvious in its vagueness. Sidney had already talked over their standings and rankings and point production and a thousand other variables with Mario an endless number of times just that day alone.

As Mario looked at him, Sidney knew he knew. But mercifully, he just sighed and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Anything’s possible. Miracles, you know.” He nodded at the food in Sidney’s hands. “Go ahead and take that upstairs. No need to leave it behind.” Sidney smiled gratefully. Mario still looked concerned, like he wanted to talk to Sid more about this, and Sidney really didn't want to argue. But in the end, all Mario said was, “Sleep well, Sidney.”

He left Sidney to grab a fork and take his haul back up to the guesthouse suite.

Sidney snacked as he climbed the stairs, thinking gloomily about his prospects and his mother and Lyanne’s hopes and Mario’s concerned face, and by the time he reached his room the Tupperware was mostly empty.

He wished he understood why Mario was so upset. He never really got why nonbelievers were so hung up on matches. It was just one of a million things about the faith that made it what it was, but outsiders were fixated on it. He wasn't having fun with the matches so far, not by any stretch, but he understood the necessity of the process.

He’d never admitted it to anyone out loud, but the whole matchmaking business was kind of a relief, knowing that he could focus on his career, on being the best he could at the sport without wasting excess energy on finding someone organically. He could outsource that work to someone who knew more about this than he did. It was practical. 

It made sense. Now all he had to do was make it work for him, and find a match. Wherever in the gods’ names they might be hiding.

 

*

 

“You need to stop staring at Sidney.”

Sergei’s voice startled Zhenya into stumbling a little from his position leaning against the boards. He was still breathing hard enough that he wasn't even conscious of where he was staring, but when he looked over, Sergei was eyeing him wearily.

It made Zhenya sputter a little. “What? I’m not— _you_ are.”

Sergei raised an eyebrow. “It’s weird and you’re making me uncomfortable just watching.”

“Then stop watching me,” Zhenya muttered. “I’m not staring.” He hadn’t realized he was, anyway.

Sergei nudged him hard with the end of his stick. Zhenya swatted him away, annoyed, but Sergei kept looking at him pointedly. “It’s not polite. You know how the orthodox can be. He’ll think you’re being forward.”

“Forward? What is this, the fifties? And what would you know about it?” Sergei's family were secular atheists for generations, as far as Zhenya knew.

Sergei shoved against his shoulder good-naturedly. “I’m an educated guy, Zhenya. I may not be lapsed, but I know things.”

And as he kept watching Zhenya, Zhenya finally looked away. “I just didn’t know he was orthodox until yesterday.” 

Sergei barked out a laugh, but when Zhenya just shrugged, he shook his head, lost in apparent wonder. “How is that even possible? How did you not know _Sidney Crosby_ is orthodox?” He started chuckling again, helplessly. “My god, kid. Read a newspaper sometime, you know?”

“I’ve been busy,” Zhenya griped, but really he’d avoided a lot of the press in the years before he was able to make it over to America. He didn’t want to get his hopes up, even once he was drafted but before the Metallurg staff began making noises about taking his passport. 

He'd known Sidney was a superstar, he’d have to be dead not to, but it felt presumptuous to read up on anything but his stats, as unreal as they were. It always made Zhenya feel weird when fans would come up and ask him personal questions. He didn’t want to do the same, even if Sidney would never even have known about it.

Up ahead, Sidney was bickering happily with Tanger over something. Duper swooped in and bodily separated them by shoving between them and Sidney skittered away, laughing. Obviously, the orthodox rules of modesty were relaxed on the ice, with pads and sweat between them all.

But knowing this now gave context to the weird way a lot of people talked about Sid, like he was the chosen one. They probably thought they were being clever with the religious undertones, winking at it. Well, it had been too subtle for Zhenya. Sue him.

Eventually Sergei took his place in the drill and stopped pestering Zhenya, and Zhenya vowed to do his best to stop staring at Sidney like a creep unless Sidney approached him and did something weird first, which was often enough. Sid was always some strange combination of deadly earnest and goofily enthused on the ice. Like some stern voice in his head lecturing him on what a serious privilege it was to be there was always at war with the joyous feeling of being a dog with his head stuck out the window.

Zhenya found himself wanting to bring out the second part of him as much as he could.

“Skate, skate!” he hollered as Zhenya finished up a shift in two-on-one.

Zhenya stopped right in front of him, sending up a spray of ice that hit him in the face, making Sidney honk out a laugh even as he complained.

“Ugh, you’re the worst,” Sidney said as he wiped off his face. 

“I'm best,” Zhenya corrected, because really. “You just jealous, is okay.” 

Rather than chirping back, Sidney beamed at him, hockey happiness and general good cheer infectious as always. It was so dumb, but Zhenya found himself smiling back. He was staring again. Shit.

“Geno! Let’s focus up!” Therrien yelled over at them and Zhenya skated away. 

He didn't have much time for being a creep after that. The rest of practice was a death march. Therrien seemed intent on skating them all into the ground. By the end Zhenya was dragging. They were on a plane in the morning to Edmonton and all he wanted to do was go home, eat his body weight in pasta, and sleep forever. 

“I long for the sweet embrace of death,” he said wistfully in Russian as everyone wrapped up their cooldown routines and trudged into the locker room.

Sasha snorted. “Always so dramatic. You’re a young guy, Zhenya.” 

“Very young. Practically a baby compared with your ancient ass.” 

“What are you guys talking about?” Sidney asked, popping out of nowhere.

“None your business,” Zhenya groused in English, scowling, playing it up when Sidney smiled. “So nosey.” 

“I’m not nosey.”

“Yes, you.” 

Sergei sighed prissily at them both. “That’s about all I can take for now, excuse me, I need to be away from here.” He shouldered his way past.

Zhenya cringed inwardly but Sidney just laughed, oblivious to any tone, and went to gather up his stuff to go off to his secret room to change, Zhenya trying and failing not to follow him with his eyes. Like a creep again. Shit.

“This is a five-minute warning,” Sergei intoned into his ear, making him jerk.

Zhenya grunted and turned to wrestle the rest of his gear off. He felt twitchy and when he glanced over his shoulder he could see Sergei was still watching him.

“Seriously, you’re being weird today.” 

“Your face is weird.”

Sergei raised an eyebrow and let the weak chirp wither and die in silence, the way it deserved.

But still, it was something about knowing this detail about Sidney’s life, this obvious fact that he had somehow overlooked for months and months, made Zhenya look at him differently. Look at him too much, apparently, if Sergei’s regular disapproving glances were anything to go by. 

Maybe it was because it made him think about the orthodox ways more than he had months, since he’d forcibly made himself forget about it all. 

And as he changed out of his tights, he started thinking how hard it must have been for Sidney, coming up as one of the only orthodox players in the OHL, and now in the national league. It wasn’t common for observant kids to play organized sports in North America, for some gods forsaken reason Zhenya didn’t really understand. Orthodox communities were insular everywhere, but especially here.

It made Zhenya think of his own flight from the KHL, comparing it to Sidney, to his own family. 

Zhenya still lived with the low-level but constant anxiety that he was going to get sued to all hell or his family would be harassed on his behalf. As bad as it was, he’d expected that. 

What he hadn’t expected, but the worst part had been the letters and emails from his family in the north. From his grandmother, her slanting script familiar in its near illegibility.

_You’ve turned your back on your people. The gods will punish you for this._

At that point he hadn’t seen his grandmother in nearly ten years, and it had been his parents who had taken them away in the first place. Zhenya had been a child. He hadn’t chosen anything. But leaving Russia had apparently been seen as an official repudiation of his faith as well, and he’d been taken aback by how his hands had shaken when he’d read the words.

Sidney’s family obviously hadn’t shunned him. But Zhenya couldn’t believe there wasn’t at least some tension between the life Sidney had left behind in Canada and the way he lived now as a professional athlete.

"Mother of god," Sergei said, fully dressed now and in a mood. "How are you taking this long. Have you even moved?"

Zhenya was done being pestered. "Then go without me, old man," he snapped, losing his temper.

The worst part about Sergei was that he was never afraid to call a bluff.

Zhenya didn't usually remember that until after he was watching Sergei walk away, leaving Zhenya stranded in his sweat shorts, still needing to shower and now stranded at the practice rink.

He grumbled through washing his hair and drying off and yanking his clothes back on. When he looked up, the room was mostly empty. Maybe he had been taking too long. His head was all over the place anymore.

He walked out, wondering if he could catch one of the coaches leaving late to drive him back, and walked right into Sidney.

Without thinking, he moved to steady him, but froze as Sidney stepped back. 

"Sorry," Sid was saying. "Sorry, didn't see you."

"My ride leave me," Zhenya grumbled.

Sidney made a considering noise. "Well, you do take really long to get ready to leave."

Traitor. "You're still here!"

"But Mario had to meet with the coaches and he said he'd meet me after." He tilted his head. "I can...we can walk out? Mario can give you a ride."

He started toward the door and Zhenya fell into step. 

It had been a while, and Zhenya's memory of the rules was rusty. “Is okay, we do this?” He glanced around in demonstration of the zero amount of chaperones they had. In the distance, he heard the sound of a few trainers talking in a distant room, but the hall was cleared of people.

Sidney’s shoulders were hunched up near his ears. “Yeah, I mean, we’re still in public, kind of.”

“Bending rules, maybe.”

Sidney looked stricken until Zhenya smirked, trying to signal that he was just kidding around to hide his own nerves—which may not have fully translated, but Sidney relaxed marginally, so it was a win. “Not really, I mean. It’s the rink. I can’t be chaperoned all the time. Even my parents know that.”

They were mostly silent as they walked. Zhenya was fine with it. The art of small talk was still far beyond his grasp in English. Sid, however, was not at peace with the resting silence.

“Do you miss home?” He glanced sideways at Zhenya, like he thought maybe it was an impertinent thing to ask.

Zhenya snorted. “Yes, Sid. Miss home very much.” He poked his tongue into cheek, amused. “Russians very strong, very tough. But also feel things.” He clasped a hand to his heart, trying to look stoic, mostly failing.

Sidney rolled his eyes. “Shut up, you’re not funny.” His hands were shoved into his pockets, swaying in a way that on another guy would mean he was about to playfully knock shoulders, but of course Sidney held back, a careful foot or so of space between them.

“What do you miss?” Zhenya asked as they passed through into the parking garage, playing along.

Sid hummed a little like he did when he was thinking something over. It was pretty sweet. Zhenya wished he noticed it less intensely. “I miss my family, like my mom and dad used to come to all my games when they could, and my sister,” he said. “But it’s more than that, I miss—everyone knows me there. Everyone is in everyone’s business, and everyone’s known you since you were tiny. It’s a lot, sometimes. But it’s also nice.”

Zhenya nodded. It was a long time ago now, but he could remember the feeling of being woven into the fabric of a community so tightly it was like everyone shared a pulse, sometimes. 

“But it’s also nice...being away.” Sidney rubbed fitfully at the back of his neck. “That’s horrible to say. I can’t believe I said it.”

“Why horrible?” 

“Because I shouldn’t want to get away, not from my community. They’ve done everything for me.”

“You believe in the gods, yes?” 

Sidney wrinkled his nose. “Of course. Why would you— _of course_.”

“Just question, Sid,” Zhenya chided gently. Not everyone believed so easily, even people Zhenya knew were orthodox. It wasn’t the same for everyone. He wasn’t quite sure he believed in them, or in anything, anymore. “I just mean—if you believe in gods, you believe they know you. Know you good."

Or at least Zhenya assumed they would. The gods no longer felt real to him, not like they used to, where he could feel it in his chest. It had faded over time, and sometimes he missed the blind certainty, but he had a feeling the belief itself was probably never coming back.

Now that he'd rambled it out in his horrible English it sounded like some bullshit theology, but Sidney looked thoughtful.  

Besides, if the gods existed, if the orthodox believers were right, Zhenya couldn’t imagine they would ever be disappointed in Sidney. Sidney was too good. The gods would have to be stupid not see it.

They reached Mario's car. Sidney turned slowly, peering up at Zhenya, lips pursed in thought.

“Thanks for saying that,” he said.

Zhenya shrugged. “Is no problem.”

“But still, thanks.” Sidney ran a hand over his head, making his hair fluff up. “Sometimes it’s weird, not having anyone around to talk to about this. At home, there’s always a ton of my cousins around, and all the family is really pushy and into each other’s business, but at least they know stuff about matchmaking, and they don’t think it’s weird, and nobody on the team really, uh. It’s not something they really get.” He grimaced. “Sorry to whine so much.”

Zhenya’s English was what it was, but he got the gist. “You not whiner. Shouldn’t say.” It was the most nonsensical of the taunts Sidney got. No one worked harder than him, or seemed to be targeted on the ice more.

“I’m happy to be able to play hockey,” he said stubbornly, like there was a media mic just around the corner in the empty parking lot.

Zhenya took a step closer and Sidney’s mouth closed, eyes going a touch wider. Zhenya wasn’t touching but he was probably standing a little too close. He wanted Sidney to listen, though.

“It’s okay,” Zhenya said. “I’m not cousin maybe, but you need talk, I’m here.”

He was staring again, he realized. He was probably standing too closely also, looming a little, gazing down. And Sidney was staring up at him, cheeks pinking up. The moment stretched too long. He couldn't step back. If his grandmother was here, she'd whap him over the head with a spoon for this.

From around the corner, a horn sounded, making them both jerk and Zhenya twist away. A car pulled up, and Zhenya recognized it immediately. Sergei.

Sergei rolled down the window. "Get in," he said gruffly. Zhenya should have known Sergei wouldn't leave him. He was soft, like a dumpling.

"You're all heart," Zhenya said in Russian, grinning. He was grateful for it, both the ride and knowing Sergei wasn't mad anymore. Also he didn't think he was quite ready to ride home with Mario Lemieux. It would be like hitching a ride with Michael Jordan. What did you talk about with a Hockey God?

"Get in, or I'll really leave you," Sergei warned. In English, he said to Sid, "You need a ride too?"

Sidney was rubbing at the back of his neck. "No, Mario is coming."

"So nice of Zhenya to wait with you," Sergei said lightly. Zhenya still felt himself flush as he folded into the car.

As they drove away, Zhenya kept Sidney in his sight in the side mirror as long as he could before they turned. 

Sidney was watching just as steadily.

 

*

 

Sidney was sure Veronica was probably a sweet lady normally. He wanted that on the record, that he could appreciate that this process was uncomfortable for everyone and it didn’t bring out the best in people. 

That said, Veronica spent twenty minutes on the front end of the date asking increasingly pointed questions about Sidney’s income, and then the back half interrogating him on his personal feelings on prenups.

“I guess it probably depends?” he hazarded uncomfortably. The embarrassing thing was he’d never really thought about it; he’d naively assumed that when he eventually found a match, there’d be no point of a prenup, because they’d be matching for life. It was a _match_. You didn't just get divorced from an orthodox match. That was the whole _point_.

Sitting with Veronica made him aggressively rethink his position. 

“So you’re saying you’d be open to not signing one?” she asked intently. 

“I’m not really sure,” he said.

Veronica nodded, although she seemed impatient. “Well, think about it. It’s important.” 

When he got home, he didn’t want to call his mother or Lyanne. He still felt odd from the date, and kind of demoralized in general. He really sucked at this. And his family just wanted it to go well, and he didn't want to call up any of his cousins and admit how badly he was sucking, and none of the guys on the team knew anything about any of this or would talk about it without being weird.

Except that wasn’t really true, was it. 

Without giving himself much time to think about it, he found himself flipping open his phone and dialing Geno. He'd saved his number from back in the very beginning when he'd first met him, that first night when Geno had come to Mario's exhausted from hours of flying, all his belongings in a backpack slung over one shoulder. He'd put his phone in Sidney's hand and mimed pressing buttons, then said something to Gonch, who translated, "Just in case," to Sidney. Sidney had obliged, but he'd never expected to use it.

He was a little uneasy listening to the phone ring. It wasn't technically against the rules to call someone outside of the family. He wasn't going to call his mom right after and tell her he was talking on the phone with an unmarried boy his age, though.

Geno picked up on the fourth ring. “Sid?” He sounded fuzzy, like he’d woken up from a nap. Or from bed, maybe, Sidney realized as he checked the time.

“Sorry, it’s late,” he said, but Geno was making soft noises like he was sitting up. 

“No, is okay, is okay.” There was great yawning sound, then a pop like his jaw was cracking as he stretched it out. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Sidney mumbled. He felt kind of stupid now, waking Geno up, like Geno had any reason to understand or really care about the particulars of Sidney’s matchmaking escapades. Geno was lapsed, after all.

“Sid, you okay?” He sounded worried now. “What happed. Tell.”

“Nothing happened.” Sidney swallowed, slouching on the couch. “I just was on a match date. Didn’t go so hot.”

“What happened? She ugly? Or he?”

“She.” Playing with the seam of his jeans, Sidney tried, “I think the lady wanted to kill me and take my money.” Geno sucked in a gasp, so Sidney briefly explained the weirdness with Veronica. By the end of it, he was chuckling a little, because it was kind of funny now that he wasn’t staring into Veronica’s odd cold eyes anymore. Bullet dodged, as it were.

He waited for Geno to join in on the joke, but eventually it became clear he wasn’t going to, and then Sidney wondered if maybe he just hadn’t explained himself correctly. Sidney had been rambling after a while, after all. 

“You tell _svakha_ ,” Geno insisted sharply, before Sidney could try to explain it with simpler language, and Sidney was caught off guard. 

Geno sounded _pissed_.

“Geno, it’s okay—”

“You tell her. That lady not deserve match with you. She not deserve match at _all_.”

The anger was vindicating. "It's not a big deal," he tried to demur, but he felt warm, for some reason.

"So rude. Talk about money, on match date." Geno kept grousing, not necessarily as mad as before, more like he was trying to get Sidney to laugh. "Also creepy. Creepy lady."

That did it. Sidney started giggling, and Geno let him start talking about the Rangers game coming up the day after next, and eventually when Sidney hung up he was still smiling, and he didn't feel like his chest was tensing up quite so much.

That was probably why calling Geno after match dates became something he did. It was easy. Or at least, he was telling himself that was why. He wasn't letting himself think too deeply about it. Or tell his parents it was becoming part of his match date routine.

A few days later, a banker named Ben took Sidney up to his office building because he said the view of the lake from his floor was spectacular. It was a little daring, even though a few people were still in the office so they weren't completely alone.

Ben helped them climb out through a window to stand on a roof overhang and for a moment, Sidney felt something spark in his chest. The view was beautiful. It was almost romantic, and when Sidney looked back at Ben to see he was already watching Sidney, smiling a little shyly for his reaction, Sidney had a moment of hope that this, here, might have actual match potential. 

Then Ben said casually, “You know what the funny thing is?” He stomped his foot on the platform they were standing on, which wobbled slightly. “We’re standing on painted particle board. It’s like a four-story drop. We’re not supposed to be out here, but I’m a rebel.” He grinned at Sidney, but Sidney barely saw it. He dove for the window but misjudged the height in his haste and essentially clotheslined himself on the windowsill. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” Ben tried to say, but Sidney was already up and back on the safety of the office floor, stomach aching.

“What were you thinking?” he demanded.  
  
“I thought it would be fun?” Ben said.

“I’m an athlete,” Sidney shot back, “I need my body for work. Also for life.”

The rest of the date was had in stony silence as Ben walked Sidney back to his car. 

“I don’t think it’s a good fit,” Sidney said stiffly as he opened his door.

Ben was watching him, wide-eyed. “You’re really uptight.” 

He wasn't wrong, but Sidney was still furious. "Get home safe,” he said tightly before he drove off in Nathalie's van.

When Sidney told Geno over the phone later, he waited for Geno to say something gruff and joking and break the tension. Instead, he was struck dumb for a solid minute.

“My gods,” Geno finally said faintly. “Sidney, you text me next time. Text me and I get you.”

“I’m okay, Geno,” Sidney tried to deflect, but Geno wasn’t having it.

“You call me,” he interrupted, voice sharp, “you call me and I come.” 

Sidney rolled his eyes and felt his cheeks heat. He grumbled, but the thought that Geno was willing to drop everything to come find him if Ben were to strike again and trick Sidney into careening several stories to his death was actually kind of soothing. It made most of the anger from the date drain away. 

"Okay," Sidney said softly. "I'll all you, next time."

Most of the match dates were less life-threatening, though, and he didn't need an SOS. Instead, they all seemed to represent new and unexpected ways for Sidney to feel incredibly uncomfortable.

A week later, as soon as Daisy (“She’s getting her PhD in the Classics, she’s a real smart cookie, you’ll just love her”) sat down beside him on the bench, she looked up at him, made direct eye contact, and vomited all over his lap.

“Um,” he said. He looked down at his lap and up at her, frozen in surprise.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” she rushed to say, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “I just get really nervous.”

“Um,” he said again. It was really all he had. His lap felt warm and increasingly damp.

To her credit, Daisy hopped to her feet and helped clean off his clothes, gave him her jacket to wrap around his waist, and walked him back to his car. It had been barely fifteen minutes, but Daisy was calling it. 

“Honestly, you’re really sweet, and I appreciate you making the best of this,” she said, “but I really don’t think I can begin a marriage knowing that the first sense memory you have of me is the smell of my barf.” 

“That seems fair.” 

“Have a good one, Sidney.”

And little did Sidney know that a few days later he would be longing for Daisy and some good-natured post-vomit honesty when Charlie was sitting across from him at a coffee shop, squinting as he made a study of Sidney from head to toe.

His eyes lingered on Sidney’s chest and shoulders, and Sidney made tiny fists with his toes inside his shoes so he wouldn’t squirm.

“Man, you must work out a lot. Professional hockey player, huh? It shows.” Charlie leered openly, crossing his arms over his chest and kicking back in his chair. 

Sidney did his best to beat back the blush with sheer willpower, but he could feel the warmth in his cheeks, not to mention the way Charlie’s eyes seemed to sparkle at the discomfort.

“Well, it’s part of the job,” Sidney offered lamely, and studied the beverage menu in front of him intently, even though he didn’t really like coffee anyway. 

“Lucky me,” Charlie said. He pulled the spoon he was using to languidly stir his coffee out of the mug and licked it long and slow before sucking it into his mouth. 

“There’s been an emergency and I need to go home immediately,” Sidney blurted out. He stood and stepped away from the table. He didn't like to think of himself as a prude, but it's what he was, a sheltered virgin prude, and worst of all, now he was going to have to explain to his mom or Lyanne or gods forbid, his dad, why Charlie wasn't a match. And imply that he knew what sex was. Shit.

Charlie rose as well, reaching out to grab at Sidney’s hand, to Sidney’s horror. He couldn’t believe the nerve of this guy, touching him, on a first date no less, like they were already promised, it was insulting. And the whole time Charlie was trying to coax him with, “Wait, no there isn’t. Stay. Let’s get to know one another.”

Sidney yanked his hand away and stormed out.

“You can’t just leave a match introduction,” his mother scolded later, when he called to wearily explain Charlie was not the right fit.

“It’s the height of rudeness,” Lyanne agreed, also on speakerphone, Sidney should have guessed.

“He grabbed my hand!” he protested, unable to even work up the courage to describe the lewdness with the spoon, and while his mother and Lyanne sounded suitably shocked into silence at the impropriety of such an action, they remained unmoved.

Lyanne eventually cleared her throat. “You’re not responsible for someone else’s actions, only your own, and your actions reflect on this family.” 

“I expect you to take more care with your next match,” his mother said.

“Angela is an architect,” Leanne added, moving on from the obligatory scolding to begin singing the next match’s praises. “You’ll just love her.” 

Chastened, Sidney resolved to do better, and give Angela a chance. 

Until the night of the match date arrived, and it turned out Angela was a butthead, plain and simple. She eyed Sidney reaching for a bread roll and said, “You might want to lay off the carbs.”

Sidney cocked his head, knowing he must look like a startled dog but unable to help it. “Excuse me?” 

“You’re pretty stocky. You should think about cutting back.” She shrugged. “Just trying to be helpful.” 

“I play professional hockey,” Sidney said, not even insulted because he was so busy being puzzled. “I have a league-appointed nutritionist.” 

Bethany hummed sympathetically like this was an admission of guilt. “I bet you do.”

“No, that’s not what I meant,” he tried to explain, but Angela didn’t seem to be listening. She lifted her water glass to her lips with one dainty wrist, sipping delicately. 

“I want to make sure whoever I match with cares about their physical appearance,” she said loftily. 

Sidney looked down at himself, then up at her. “I play _professional hockey_ ,” he said again, sure maybe Angela just hadn’t heard him.

“Diet is the most important part of weight maintenance,” she said sagely.

Sidney spent most of the rest of the date trying not to stalk off in another snit, remembering his mom's quiet disappintment, but it was a near thing, and when he stomped through Mario's house up to the guest room, unwilling to even stop and horse around with the kids, he rewarded himself for his self-control by calling Geno before his mom or Lyanne or anyone else.

“She _did not_ ,” Geno said between hoots of laughter when Sidney was done recounting. “Diet? You most crazy with diet, you follow diet like is other religion.”

It was hard to maintain his crankiness in the face of Geno’s giggles. “I don’t know, maybe I should take her advice.” He tried to joke, and was a little surprised that it helped to make all of it feel a little less humiliating. “It’s important to put the right foot forward with a new match, you know.”

“So important,” Geno agreed solemnly. 

They both burst into gales of laughter. Sidney’s stomach hurt by the end of it, and a knot of tension he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying in his shoulders the entire night finally began to ease.

This was his favorite part of his matches, he realized, going through the post-mortem with Geno. He didn't really know what that meant. It was probably best not to think about it.

 

*

 

Slowly at first, then so quickly he binked and it had already happened, Zhenya realized he had been drawn into Sidney’s orbit, the way Tanger and Flower had been, rotating around Sid, protecting him on the ice, getting tough with the other guys on the team when they got too close or were on the verge of saying something shitty to him or being inappropriate or too familiar.

It was easy enough—the other guys on the team were well-meaning but hockey was a profane sport in a lot of ways and while Sidney was fussy as hell about his hockey, he was too charitable about a lot of other things for his own good. So when some call-up from Wilkes-Barre wearing only a towel threw an arm around Sidney in the locker room and ignored the way Sidney went stiff with discomfort, it was Zenya or Tanger or Duper or, in the most egregious cases, Mario who stepped in and muscled the guy away and laid down the rules of the Locker Room Behavior and Sidney Crosby. 

Except Zhenya didn’t think Tanger and Duper and Mario blushed nearly as much as he did whenever Sidney talked to them, or when he laughed his dumb laugh at a stupid joke, or skated hard into them on the ice after a good play. Tanger and Duper saw Sidney as a rascally, precocious younger brother; Mario as another Lemieux kid.

Zhenya did not see Sidney like any of those things. He so, so did not. It was becoming a real problem.

The season was marching on, and they were stringing together a few wins at a time and then dropping them, never really picking up a rhythm until it was April and Zhenya was exhausted, worn down by the relentless pace of games in a way that made him careless. Made him stop watching himself quite as carefully. It was a problem.

A problem made worse by that fact that Sidney was still calling him after all of his failed match dates, which was quickly becoming the best part of Zhenya’s week, and making everything even more complicated in the interim. 

And Sidney was going on _a lot_ of match dates. Zhenya had no idea where he found the energy. He was on the same relentless road schedule, traveling every week, going to every practice in between, optional or otherwise, training himself to death at Mario's house on the rare off day. He was losing weight, which Zhenya probably wouldn't have noticed if he wasn't so inappropriately fixated on his shape.

The media had even started to notice. "You look tired, Sid," some guy from the Inquirer asked after a loss in Anaheim. "How are you dealing with the schedule?"

Somehow no media had caught on that Sid was going on match dates. Probably the insularity of the American orthodox helped here; no one would speak to an outsider about something so private. But Zhenya didn't quite understand how no one had noticed. 

Zhenya could just see Sid press his lips together. Whatever he said in response was soft enough that Zhenya didn't catch it, but he looked chagrinned and uncharacteristically exhausted. It was starting to worry Zhenya more than anything.

He didn’t have a whole lot of personal experience with matching since he himself was lapsed and he tended to date pretty breezily, liked to pick up and mess around with comfortable regularity. But he was pretty sure he didn’t remember matchmaking taking this long at home. 

From what he knew, it happened quickly. A boy or a girl went on two, maybe three match dates if they lived in a big city. In the smaller villages, it was a formality, and the family and the  _svakha_ all decided the match before the need for match dates even arose.

Then again, he didn’t have much of a frame of reference. He thought of his cousin Ana. It was the last orthodox wedding he’d been to, and even that had been years ago, but it wasn’t a happy memory.

Anna was only fifteen, and Zhenya hadn’t seen her or her family much growing up. She was really more of a fifth or fourth cousin, the daughter of the aunt of his mother’s second cousin, all Zhenya knew was her parents were poor and she was the oldest of the seven kids and his mama sometimes muttered about them to his papa.

Anna’s family lived even farther outside of Magnitogorsk than the Malkin clan did and one summer, his mama told him Anna was coming to visit. She sounded mad about it. 

“Why is she coming?” Zhenya asked, curious. He liked Anna, who was a year or two older than him and even though he hadn’t seen her in more than three years, he remembered she’d known a few obscure American rock bands and had seemed infinitely cool to Zhenya and Denis.

“She has a match,” his mama had said, frowning as she looked down at Zhenya where he sat at their scuffed kitchen table. “She’s getting married.”

Zhenya had been confused. Anna was only thirteen. He’d heard tales of young matches, but his grandmother usually didn’t stand for that sort of thing in their congregation and it caught him off guard. 

He must have made some kind of face because his mother had hugged him and exhaled shakily. But she hadn’t offered more, and something about the air of grief in the room made Zhenya afraid to ask more either. 

He’d eventually learned it was a match with a much older man, who had paid a significant bride price, and Anna’s parents had jumped at it. He hadn’t had the chance to talk with her that summer, and had only seen her from the back of the congregation on the actual day of the wedding. Her eyes had been wide and unseeing the entire ceremony. It had been frightening and Zhenya remembered holding Denis’s hand, a move Denis would normally have rebuffed with brotherly disgust, but he must have been a little unnerved too because he’d let Zhenya get away with it.

He kept waiting for his grandmother to stand up from her spot at the front of the congregation, in her special raised chair near the dais, but she just watched Anna walk to the front, that terrified look on her face, and let her wed the match, a reedy looking man in a shabby suit with greasy hair that Zhenya had immediately disliked.

Zhenya’s parents had hustled him and his brother out of the church as soon as it was over, and they didn’t go to the reception afterward. He remembered his parents sitting in stony silence on the car ride home. A few months later, they’d moved to the city and stopped speaking with the rest of the family. 

He’d lost touch with most of his cousins. Last time he heard Anna had had four or five kids and was living in the same remote village.

After media left, Sid went to get dressed, and on his way back Zhenya saw he was wearing his game day suit but with the crisp white button-down underneath that Zhenya had long ago recognized as his date shirt.

"Another date?" Zhenya asked, not really thinking.

"What are you trying to say?" Sid asked tensely.

If it had been a few hours ago, before the loss, maybe earlier in the week before Zhenya had spent three nights back to back talking through failed match dates in excruciating detail with Sid, his voice the last thing he hear before he went to bed, he might have been able to cool it. Dial it back, realize he was out of line, that it wasn't his place to make a judgment about how many matches he'd met, how many dates he'd shoved into his schedule until he couldn't stay awake on buses and planes, and his eyes were always droopy unless they were playing a game or practicing. 

But he wasn't there. Not right now.

Most of the guys had left, and Sergei was giving him a raised eyebrow but had wondered out to meet with a trainer. Mario murmured something to Sid, probably that he would meet him at the car. He met Zhenya's eye before he left but didn't try to interrupt whatever storm was brewing now.

Still, he lowered his voice as he said, "I think you go on too many dates."

Sid's face went slowly red. "Shut up. No I'm not."

"You try and force."

"I am not," Sidney snapped. 

"Why not take break?"

"I can't just give up. My family, everyone back home, I have to. This is what I have to do."

"Maybe. Or maybe you just hate lose."

It was a mean thing to say, and Zhenya regretted it as soon as the words left his lips, but he saw Sidney's purse his own mouth together and felt his own stubbornness start to rise.

"You're a heathen, you don't know what you're talking about." He saw Sid flinch as he said it, and even though it didn't offend him purposefully, he knew Sidney didn't like to call nonbelievers that, so if he'd said it he meant it as an insult, and Zhenya was already pissed, so he was more than happy to take it as one.

"Fine. Don't go crying to me on phone after."

"Fine!"

"Good!"

"Perfect!"

Sidney spun on his heel and stomped out the door, yanking his jacket off in frustration as he went. Zhenya watched him go, guilty and irritated and wanting to hit a wall.

"Whoa," someone said softly. He turned and saw Kuni creeping in. "There's a real...weird energy, going on in here."

"Yes I know," Zhenya bit out and grabbed his sweaty clothes and stomped out to find Sergei and make him drive them home and try not to throw a fit Sergei would tease him about for the rest of the weekend.

He needed out of this godsforsaken stadium. He needed to be away.

 

*

 

Sidney didn’t stop walking until he was safely inside a training room he was pretty sure was empty, his back to the wall, exhaling slowly through his nose, eyes squeezed shut.

“Shit,” he said. 

“I’m telling your mom you swear like that,” Flower said from his spot on the trainer’s table, making Sidney jerk his eyes open. 

“You’re in here,” Sidney yelped, accusingly, because he honestly hadn’t noticed. He must have just gotten done getting checked out since the trainer was already gone. 

Flower raised his eyebrows. “Yep, sure am.” He tilted his head, studying Sid’s face. “What’s wrong with you?”“Nothing, geez.” Sidney shrugged, rubbing

“Nothing, geez.” Sidney shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. Why was everyone all over him tonight, the press, Flower, Zhenya before—he couldn't even think of what Zhenya had said with any too detail, too humiliated by the words. _You go on too many dates_. It made his whole face burn.

After a few moments, he realized Flower was still watching him. Sidney was still getting the feel for Flower. He was a recent call-up, and weird in the way only a goalie could be. 

He also didn’t seem to like Sid all that much. Which was too bad, because as weird as he was, Sidney found himself unwillingly drawn to him. He was so calm. Like a stream or a brook or something, only all gangly and weird.

They looked at each other for a while, until Flower said casually, “I hear you’re going on matches. Like, the dates.” 

“Yes, I am,” Sidney replied, cautious as always when a new guy brought up his faith.

“And you’re fine with it? You’re okay with the whole thing?”

Sidney nodded, because he was. Or he thought he was. He normally was, really, when he wasn't arguing with Geno over it and feeling like a jackass in his match shirt for the fourth night in a row, knowing he was about to go and bomb out with another stranger his mom and Lyanne and probably his dad too had spent time arranding a match with.

“What about all those kids who are forced to marry someone they don’t even love? Child brides, things like that.” Flower's voice was cool, even. Like he wasn't saying anything inflammatory, just waiting for Sid's reaction.

Sid was too worked up not to jump. “I’m not a child.”

Flower's eyebrows went up. "So that's it? You're fine, so the whole thing must be fine?”

"I don't really—it's not my place." He didn’t like to get political. It was one of the first things he'd ever learned in media training, and besides, it wasn't like you ever talked about the community to an outsider, said anything against the faith or the traditions, even if you had opinions. You didn't let someone from the outside pass judgment.He’d heard the arguments, obviously. You couldn’t really exist in a world with internet without hearing people’s opinions on arranged marriages, and orthodox ways. His small congregation had even had a few picketers one summer, about half a dozen protesters who used to chant condescending things at members as they marched into the church for service. Sidney mostly remembered feeling embarrassed and hunching his shoulders to get past. His dad had almost gotten into a fight with one of them before Sid’s mom had pulled him away. 

Even then, he’d figured it was the protestors’ right to believe what they wanted, even if he thought they were kind of dicks about it. But on the other hand, no one was making them follow the old ways. Sidney’s family wasn’t hurting anybody. He never really got why some of the kids he played against growing up, and their families in the stands, would get so rabid over the idea that Sid’s family followed a different belief system. It was difficult to fathom, so he’d stopped trying.

It was still jarring to be hit with it from Flower, of all people. Someone he’d begun to tentatively trust as his friend, even if he was a weird goalie and a nonbeliever. Lots of nonbelivers were good. Tanger, and Duper. Mario. He swallowed. Geno. Especially Geno.

"So you're fine with people being forced? As long as it's tradition, right?" The thing was, Flower didn't even seem riled up, just curious. Well, curious and accusatory, but mostly curious. Like he'd never met someone like Sid before. Sidney got that a lot.

It made Sidney huff, spreadng his hands. “No one should be forced to do anything they don’t want to do. It’s not a cult, Flower,” he chided. “It’s my choice.”

“Maybe you don’t even know what you want,” Flower said. “Maybe you just think you want this, because you’ve been programmed.” 

“Fuck you,” Sidney bit out, stung. He hated that superior, condescending nonbeliever argument, not least of it which because it made Sidney and his community sound like mindless drones without any agency.

Worse, it made it sound like he’d never had doubts. He’d gone through the classic crisis of belief as a teenager, waking up in a panic night after night wondering if he followed his faith and his traditions because he truly felt it in his soul, a connection to the old gods, to his ancestors, to an undeniable truth—or if he’d been brainwashed by his family and his church about not wanting to disappoint anyone or be disowned by his community. What was a faith, what was choice, who was he in the world, etc., etc. It had been a very dramatic summer.

But he wasn’t sixteen anymore. He was a grown man who’d come to terms with his faith and wanted to follow it as his traditions dictated, even if his teammates and the media and a lot of the fans saw it as archaic. He wouldn’t repudiate it for them.

“You swear a lot for an orthodox guy,” Flower said. He sounded amused. “Yeah, well, I’m also a hockey player,” Sid shot back, still feeling feisty and a little attacked. “The two can coexist.”

“Yeah, well, I’m also a hockey player,” Sid shot back, still feeling feisty and a little attacked. “The two can coexist.”

"Yeah, maybe," Flower said, like he didn't possibly believe that was true.

"I'll see you later, okay," Sidney said, harried, and left the room, hoping to the gods Mario was ready to hit the road finally.

"Good talk, champ!" Flower called after him, and damn him for being jovial. Damn him for making Sidney feel even more off-center and then act all jolly. It just made Sidney want to be his friend more, even though he was kind of a dick. It wasn't fair.

Luckily, Mario was ready, and he drove Sidney home in relative silence.

"You good?" he asked once, looking over, then back at the road.

"Fine."

"Production's not all on you. It's the whole team."

Weirdly, Sidney hadn't even still been fuming about the game. That was unusual for him. He was too busy being mad at Geno.

"Yeah, I know," he muttered, and turned to face the window.

By the time he got home, he had to face facts: there was no way he was going on a match date tonight. He was exhausted, and so cranky he was worried he'd start a fight with whoever it was this time.

As he dialed home, he hoped it would just be his mom.

Of course, his dad answered.

"Sid? What's wrong?" he sounded concerned.

"Nothing, I'm fine. Is Mom there? Or Lyanne?"

"Sure," his dad said, still seeming worried. But instead of handing it over, he put it on speaker, and both his mom and Lyanne said hi in unison, and then a tiny voice also said hi, and of course it was Taylor. The whole family was there, to hear how he'd failed.

"I can't go on the match date tonight," he blurted out, letting momentum carry him home.

"Sidney, what's wrong?" his mom asked, voice low. Like they would he was going to reveal some trauma that was making him act out.

Maybe he wasn't acting out. Maybe he was just tired of all of this. That wasn't so unreasonable, to need a break.

"Nothing's wrong, I just can't go out tonight. The game—well, you saw the game," he gritted out. He knew they all watched them together, usually with a few cousins and aunts clustered around the TV.

"We did," his dad said dryly. "We couldn't help but notice you weren't quite yourself."

It was pretty restrained for his dad, enough that Sidney realized he was worried.

"It's not the game, I had a slow third period but I still had an assist, that's fine, that's not it," he said, not realizing he was borderline ranting until he stopped to draw breath and heard his family was silent.

He thought for the first time how all these matches must be wearing on them. The things people at home must be saying, but also the worry they must feel, every time he went out, met someone, rejected them, called to say it hadn't worked. But Lyanne and his mom kept setting up matches, and his dad hadn't said anything yet, not since after that first match.

"You don't sound like yourself," Lyanne said quietly.

It really struck him, then. How much they wanted happiness for him. It was humbling. Also stifling. 

“It’s not working,” Sidney heard himself saying, pained.

He could almost hear his mother purse her lips together through the phone, envision her slowly shaking her head. “We’ve shown you all the best prospects out there. In all of North America.”

What about Europe, Sidney wanted to say. What about Russia. The thought popped into his head without warning and he felt his cheeks flushing. He didn’t know why he would want to look in Russia for a match.

“If this is the best there is, I’ll wait. I’m not interested in dating,” he said in a rush.

Out of the sudden silence, his mom and Lyanne went into an immediate uproar.

“Absolutely not, out of the question—”

“That is not an option, Sidney, how could you even _think_ —” 

“I’m just saying this _isn’t working_ ,” Sidney stressed.

"Don't you speak to your mother and your aunt that way," his dad cut in finally, dangerously. Sid bit his lip, still annoyed, but momentarily cowed. He'd never argued with his family like this before. 

“The gods above only know what this perfect match you have in mind looks like,” Lynette said, crossing her arms, eyes narrowed, all the better to stare him down from across the table, “but while you’re fixating on someone who doesn’t exist, another year is going to pass and before you know it you’ll be past your prime.”

“Past my prime?” Sidney covered his face with his hands. “I’m twenty-one! How can I already be too old?”

“She’s right, my love," his mom said softly. “Think of your cousin Jeremy. He went to medical school, everyone told him to find a match before he left but he wouldn’t listen, and when he finally began looking for a match he was too alienated from his own people, and then he ended up a spinster.”

“A spinster who owns his own private practice,” Sidney muttered, mostly to be difficult, because he knew the way people whispered about Jeremy. For his part, although Jeremy was successful, and Sidney remembered how he smiled and talked about work at community meals on the rare occasions Sidney was home for one of them, it was obvious Jeremy was lonely. He was unmatched, and it wasn’t by choice.

He felt a soft pressure on his wrist and looked down to see he was squeezing his hands tight together.  

“Sidney. All we want is to help you build your life. It’s what your family is for.” Lyanne's voice was soft, entreating. “Let us help you.”

He’d known Lyanne his entire life. He was disappointing her too in all of this, and that was almost as painful as hurting his own mother and father. And it didn’t stop with Lyanne, it felt like he was letting his whole community down, people he’d known forever, who’d known him, who had been a part of every major moment of his life until now and expected him to follow traditions.

Like worrying a toothache, he let the guilt wash over him at the knowledge that he was still choosing a sport over his faith.

But that was crazy, he was meant to play hockey. Whatever else the gods had in store for him, hockey was his destiny.

"Maybe you need to stop being selfish and do your duty by your family," his dad cut in, words strained with the obvious effort it took not to yell. Taylor must be sitting right in his lap, listening wide-eyed. She hated yelling, and everyone hated making her cry. It must be so tense in the kitchen now it was probably only a matter of time.

“Troy," his mother said, quellingly. Then, carefully, to Sidney, "Maybe you should give the Jaszowiec girl another chance...” 

And that was it. They weren't listening to him. They didn't understand.Sidney stood up so suddenly his chair skittered backward like it was trying to get out of his way. “I won’t do it. I won’t settle.” His hands were shaking as he closed the phone, hung up on his own family like the disappointment of a son he was turning out to be. They called back but he turned the ringer off and stuck the phone under his pillow.

His hands were shaking as he threw himself on the bed. He stared at the ceiling. He closed his eyes, tried to gather his thoughts to pray. He didn't pray much, the light of faith the priesthood holders spoke of more of a dull glow in the back of his mind, but as he reached for it now, it felt farther away. 

He opened his eyes, sighing, preparing to spend most of the night staring off and not sleeping. He didn't know what to do. 

 

*

 

Sundays were sacred to Zhenya. When the team wasn’t traveling or playing, he had a certain way he liked his days off to go, and maybe it went back to his family’s transition after they moved when Zhenya’s was younger. His parents had put in place a tacit but rock solid refusal to follow the rules of worship, and Zhenya and Denis has just followed along until it became habit, following nonbelieving ways as rigidly as orthodoxy for a few years, going through Sunday without speaking a devout word. Now as an adult he made a point not to do anything that could be misinterpreted as mindful or thoughtful or anything but indolent.

Now as an adult he made a point not to do anything that could be misinterpreted as mindful or thoughtful or anything but indolent. It was practically habit.

“In a way it’s like you meditate,” Sergei said once, smirking. He’d always found it hilarious that Zhenya came from an orthodox family. “That’s kind of observant in its own way, wouldn’t you say?” 

“Let me live,” Zhenya had grumbled, because it was _his_ weird habit and if it was an echo of sham reverse-orthodoxy, that wasn’t Sergei’s business. 

He was just set up with a book and a soft throw blanket on the wide couch up in his room someone knocked and he threw back his head. “What,” he groaned. “What could be so important.”

The door creaked open, and when Zhenya rolled his head around he saw it was Sidney. 

Sidney had never visited Zhenya before. He doubted Sidney had ever gone to one of the other guys’ houses before by himself, especially not into one of their bedrooms, even if Sergei and the girls were just upstairs. He thought maybe Sidney had stopped by once for a party Sergei had thrown at the end of the previous season.

He could only imagine the face Sergei must have made as he let Sidney in the front door.

It felt strangely illicit, seeing Sidney standing alone in the doorway, hovering uncertainly.

Zhenya sat up, smoothing a hand over his hair. He must look rumpled all to shit. His English felt rusty. “Sid. What you doing here?”

"I wanted to say sorry about yesterday," he said, looking away.

"No you don't," Zhenya said, watching the way Sid's jaw tensed. "You not sorry."

His eyes flashed to meet Zhenya's. "No, I'm not. Fine. You were being a dick."

"Yeah, I was." Zhenya grinned with Sidney looked surprised, then flushed as Zhenya laughed. "Very dick. Just mad." He scooted over on the couch to make plenty of room, half expecting Sidney to decline. To his surprise, Sidney inched over and perched on the far edge.

"I'm sorry I bug you about it all the time. It's not your job to listen to all  my failed dates."

"You not fail," Zhenya chided, and before Sid could argue back, added, "But I like. Not mind, listen to whine."

"I don't whine," Sidney said, with a slight whine.

They fell into silence for a moment, Zhenya apparently forgiven, and having also seemingly forgiven Sidney even though he'd never apologized. Although that wasn't a surprise.

It was odd, sitting so close and alone with Sid. They were separated by several feet of modest space, and it still felt illicit, somehow. When Zhenya glanced over, he saw Sid was watching him. It made him feel a little flustered. He cast about for something to say, and settling on a detail he'd been wondering about for a while now.

“Why not tell Lyanne who to add to list?” It made sense, and Zhenya couldn't really remember why it wasn't correct. "Pick who want to go on match date with."

Sid looked absolutly affronted. “I can’t tell her that.”

“Why? If you see boy or girl you like. Tell her you maybe find match better.”

“Geno.” Sidney looked like he was doing his level best not to lose his temper, but that it was a serious struggle. “They might be fine, they might be perfect. But I could never approach someone or meet them, or definitely not bring them home. It has to go through the matchmaker, or at the very least a family member.” 

Zhenya mulled that over. It wasn’t like he was ovely familiar with the process. This was helpful insight, but for fuck’s sake. “Very complicate.” Unnecessarily so. 

Sidney nodded sullenly. “Very.”

Without meaning to, Zhenya sighed. "Glad it you, not mean." 

“But you grew up in the faith,” Sidney insisted. “Don’t you want that?” When Zhenya just looked at him, Sidney made a frustrated sound. "You know, a match. Someone who grew up the same way, had the same experiences. The same beliefs."

“I want choice,” Zhenya said, stubborn, even though he knew what Sid meant and it wasnt completely inaccurate. His own parents had been matched, although they'd known each other before and their parents had been indulgent and let the match proceed at his mother's request. And they were happy. Very happy, even though he barely spoke to them now, since he practically defected to America. "Choice important to me."

“I have a choice!” Sidney burst out. He sounded genuinely hurt. “The community has a choice.”

“You know that not always true," Zhenya said softly.

“I don’t know that,” Sidney shot back, mulish. They glared at each other for a long moment.

Finally Zhenya sighed. “Is not, is not same, not everywhere.” It was hard to articulate his feelings on orthodoxy in Russian, let alone in fucking English, and he didn’t want to fight about something so delicate and that he himself had a hard time figuring out his feelings on. Judging from the flush rising up Sid’s cheeks though, that was a lost cause. “Your family, they say, ‘Sid, want you to be happy.’ And you want to be matched. Is choice.”

Sid was frowning and flushing and generally looking increasingly upset. “Yes. Exactly. That’s what I’ve been saying.”

“But not like that for many people. Many people not best hockey player in world, many people not famous, not important, just one small person in congregation, in small town, in poor family. Many people not get say.” Zhenya thought of his cousin Anna, and how scared she’d been, and so powerless at the same time. “Some people young, some just kids. I know this not everywhere, probably not most of Canada. But in some places. Some places, no choice. Just the church.”

“I know that,” Sid whined sharply, reflexively. Zhenya gave him a look and Sid shrugged, looking away. “I do know that.”

“So you say, ‘This my choice. This what I want.’ I say, great. Great for Sid. But I can’t stay in faith and know someone not have choice. Even one person.”

“What, so I can’t follow tradition because some stranger somewhere might be getting forced to marry? I can’t make my own choices if I’m not saving the world?” Sid crossed his arms mulishly. “Can’t I just do one thing for myself?” 

Zhenya made a face, lips pursed. “So tough, being role model.” 

“Shut up.”

He looked so mulish that Zhenya couldn't help but chuckle. He let his head fall back against the couch, head rolling to study Sid. “I’m not say what you can do. I’m just say, for me. That is way it is.”

Sid was watching him, still looking annoyed but also curious. Almost wistful. “So you’ll never come back to the faith, then?” 

Zhenya shook his head. It still twinged somewhere in his chest to admit it. He remembered believing, years ago before his parents moved them away when they were all still part of his grandmother’s congregation. He felt secure, and like he belonged. It was easy. He missed it. “Nothing to come back to, for me.”

“So you won’t marry in the faith, either.” 

The question startled him. He’d never made a conscious decision not to date orthodox, but it wasn’t like a lot of orthodox went out of their way to hang out with heathens. Plus he slept around. Most orthodox people like Sid weren’t really into that.

He coughed. He needed to stop thinking of Sid and sex. It was disrespectful. Also it made the back of his neck feel like it was on fire.

“No, Sid,” he said, trying to be as gentle as possible. He didn’t want Sid to think he thought ill of him for staying in the faith, because Zhenya honestly didn’t feel that way. Mostly he was just envious. He didn’t think he’d ever been without doubt the way Sid was. It must be an amazing feeling.

But despite that feeling, Sid was looking away, brow drawn. Zhenya wondered when he’d gotten so sad—he wished Sid was still annoyed and prissy.

He grinned, trying to lighten the mood. “Plus, I like sex too much.”

He expected Sidney to roll his eyes or stare at Zhenya stonily the way he often did in the locker room when the conversation got a little lewd or one of the guys tried to embarrass him. 

The last thing he expected was for Sid to tuck his chin down and blush. 

“I never—I don't really think about that,” Sidney said, head down, plucking at the seam along the side of his pant leg fitfully. 

Zhenya raised his eyebrows at the obvious lie. “Really.” He’d been a teenager once, too. He was barely in his twenties now. Orthodox or no, young guys were the same all over. 

Predictably, a flush spread across Sidney’s nose and cheeks. Zhenya wanted to trace it with his fingertips but he resisted, manfully. 

“Shut up,” Sidney huffed. “I mean, I used to be able to ignore it. It was just one of those things I could put to the side, because it didn’t matter, and I could just focus on my game. One day, I’d be matched, and all that...stuff.” He made a swoopy, vague hand motion Zhenya took to mean ‘sexual desire and companionship’ because he was very good at charades. “All that would take care of itself.” 

Slowly, Sidney raised his head, and Zhenya watched with slight alarm as his eyes darkened, staring at Zhenya, eyelids heavy, looking both surprised at his own daring and also like he was unable to help it. It was a lot to handle.

“Christ,” Zhenya breathed out, “where you even learn look like that?” He chuffed a laugh, running both hands over his face. His skin felt prickly and hot. “Good orthodox boy, giving...bed eyes.”

“Bedroom eyes,” Sidney correct automatically.

Zhenya grinned, gesturing. “You see? How good orthodox boy even know difference?”

“I may be orthodox but I'm also a human boy with an internet connection,” Sidney said, pursing his lips, and the return to prissiness was welcome. “Maybe I just feel more curious now.”

“That normal,” Zhenya said, feeling like he was trying to convince the both of them. He laughed lightly, because how ridiculous, Sidney was an adult at the peak of his career, in the best shape of his life, guy was probably running hot all the time even if he didn’t want to admit. The gods knew Zhenya was the same. He was always ready to go these days, jerking off two or three times a day whenever he found the time between practice and naps and games. It had nothing to do with the fact that he was hanging out with Sidney all the time. It definitely did not.

Sidney swallowed. “No, I think it’s you.” He froze. “I mean.”

Zhenya’s heart started to pound. They shouldn’t. They were already breaking the rules just by spending so much time together without a chaperone. Sidney was given a certain amount of latitude by virtue of his job and who he was, but his family, his community, the entire orthodox faith that seemed to hungrily watch his every mood, no one would take this lightly. This just wasn’t done, not with an unmatched young person, especially one who was beginning the matchmaking process itself.

Zhenya may be lapsed, but he knew the stakes and he wasn’t in the business of ruining reputations.

He looked down and saw Sidney’s hand was only inches away from his now, grabbing tight to the fabric of the throw blanket draped over the couch between them. His knuckles were turning white from how tight he was hanging on. 

He looked up and saw Sidney staring at their hands, eyes wide, and every inch of him tense. 

Slowly, giving Sidney the chance to move away, Zhenya reached out and covered Sidney’s fist with his hand, thumb and middle finger touching where they wrapped around Sidney’s wrist. 

Sidney exhaled in a rush, a light shudder seeming to run through his entire body as his eyes slid shut like his skin was so sensitive to even this careful touch that it was almost unbearable. 

Zhenya licked his lips, feeling a little like a predator but unable to look away as he unconsciously tracing the lines of Sidney’s face and arms and shoulders. His heart was starting to pound in his ears.

Slowly, still so slowly, he rubbed his thumb gently on the soft underside of Sidney’s arm, tracing the light shape of a vein that ran down his forearm.

It was so quiet Zhenya could hear the washing machine going, the air conditioning working through the vents, his own blood rushing past his ears, Sidney’s light panting breath as he hung there, just barely rotating his wrist so Zhenya could have better access to rubbing at his arm.

“Sid,” Zhenya whispered. His voice was all fucked up. He felt like he was about to pass out. All this just from rubbing another person’s arms, mother of everything, he must be going crazy.

Sidney’s eyes fluttered open and he met Zhenya’s gaze. “Yeah,” he said, just as hoarse, and soft.

For a long moment they sat there, Zhenya tracing broader, firmer patterns on Sidney’s arm, Sidney glancing between his own arm and Zhenya’s face like he couldn’t decide where to focus, his chest rising and falling faster and faster.

Then Sidney sat back, pulling at where Zhenya was holding him with just one hand, still. Zhenya froze immediately, letting Sidney move away. He assumed thought Sidney wanted to stop. It made his chest seize up but he was ready to nod and pull away. It made sense. They’d gone way too far already.

But then he watched as Sidney scooted back on the couch until he was leaning back against the arm. Sidney settled in and raised his eyebrows, impatient except for the way his face was bright red, perhaps at his own daring. He seemed to be waiting.

For Zhenya, oh right, _Zhenya_ , who was frozen watching Sidney roll his shoulders back, his legs parting just slightly, feet curling in his white socks. Zhenya, who needed to move and stop staring with his mouth open, he told himself, like a short pep talk before a shift.

He felt clumsy as he scrambled across the last cushion separating them on the couch. He braced himself on the couch arm, hovering over Sidney, waiting for some sign, any indication that Sidney wanted this, wasn't just letting himself get pulled under by the current.

His breath coming short, Sidney met Zhenya’s eye and let his mouth drop open just the tiniest bit.

Good enough, Zhenya decided, and moved forward to press his mouth to Sid’s in a jerky movement that he’d be embarrassed about if his head didn’t feel like it was on fire with anticipation.

He felt Sidney gasp, sucking in a breath at the first touch. Zhenya ate at the sound, pressing in closer and marveling at the same time that this was obviously Sidney’s first kiss. He’d never done this before. He was enough of a dick to be into that, to feel the gentle thrill of going somewhere no one else had gone before as he shifted closer, both arms on either side of Sidney’s head so Zhenya could frame his face with his forearms and dip in to kiss him again, and again, and again. 

Zhenya was hard and his sweatpants weren't doing anything to hide the situation, so he did his best to angle away so he wasn’t obviously grinding into Sidney’s hip but it wasn’t easy. He was starting to gasp, out of breath. He was an athlete, for gods' sake, what was happening?

“Sid,” he said, pulling back just enough to watch Sid’s eyes flutter open. He looked dazed. It was nearly impossible not to kiss him again but he persevered, barely. 

“What?” Sidney asked. Then he seemed to rouse himself. “Wait, what time is it?” 

Zhenya hazarded a guess. “Almost eleven?”

Sid jerked himself away and Zhenya let him, alarmed that he was going to freak out now, finally, yell at Zhenya and storm off and never speak to him again. Rightfully.

"Is okay—I'm sorry. I'm wrong to—"

"No, stop," Sid said, reaching forward to press his fingers against Zhenya's lips, face still red. He watched his fingers tough Zhenya like he coudn't quite believe it, and really Zhenya couldn't either. Same. "I just, I told Mario I was just going out for a coffee. I need to get back with his car so he can take the kids to a movie."

Shy now, for some reason, Sid leaned forward to peck Zhenya on the lips. Unable to help himself, Zhenya chased the feeling, pressing back into it until the kiss extended a long beat, then a second, before they broke apart.

Sid was red to his hair, blinking. He was painfully attractive, impossible to look away from. "Well, I." Sid pulled at his hair. "I'll see you—tomorrow. At skate."

And before Zhenya could say anything, he was out the door, feet thudding on the stairs. Zhenya just heard the front door open and slam.

In a daze all his own, he fell back against the couch, legs spread, cock hard beneath his sweatpants but he couldn't pull together the coordination to do anything about, not just yet.

He'd kissed Sid. He'd kissed Sid _good_.  

"Fuck," he said to the ceiling. He was in trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU FOR READING and giving my goofy first attempt at RPF a chance.
> 
> tumbls: ohjafeeljadefinitelyfeel.tumblr.com


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edited: 6/22

*

 

When Sidney left Gonch’s house, his skin felt like it was buzzing.

He couldn’t believe he’d just done that, he’d kissed someone, someone completely unsuitable and outside the community and not even a _match_ prospect, holy gods, he was in trouble. 

He remembered the feeling of Geno settling over him, the weight of him pressing Sidney back into the couch, and a nearly unbearable heat swept over his skin, hitting him hard in the oddest places, making his palms and the inside of his elbows and the hollow his throat feel scorched and damp.

Big trouble.

He stumbled into Mario’s car and clasped his hands on the steering wheel, closing his eyes at how they were trembling slightly. He waited to feel like he was about to be struck down by the gods but it didn’t happen. He tried to recite a quick prayer in his head, the psalm for strength, mouthing the words as he repeated it a few times to himself.

It didn’t really make him feel any different.

He felt guilty, but distantly, the same low-level guilt he felt sometimes knowing he wasn’t really living the life of a good orthodox boy. That maybe he never would be, playing hockey, living away from his family and his community, unmatched after countless dates, regularly profane and often failing to adequately follow the modesty precepts just by virtue of being a member of the locker room, all this no matter how hard he tried to correct for it.

And now he’d kissed someone, more than just kissed really.

He was hit with a visceral memory of the powerfully uncomfortable conversation he'd once had with his dad about kissing, when he was nine and leaving the rink. 

Some of the other boys had been talking about boobs and other stuff that was definitely several steps up from kissing, but Sidney couldn’t conceptualize a world where he said “boob” in front of his dad, so he thought kissing was a safe entry point. 

“Dad, some of the other kids, they were, um.” Sidney felt himself blushing but persevered, too curious to be bashful. He needed to know. “Some of the kids were saying that people, sometimes.” He squeezed his eyes shut, a little grossed out at the thought. “Kiss with their tongues.”

They’d also been making vague references to what Sidney assumed was sex, because he was sheltered but he wasn’t stupid, and he also wasn’t stupid enough to admit out loud he knew anything about sex. 

His dad was quiet for a moment, considering. Then he asked, “What does scripture tell us about intimacy?”

Sidney stilled. He was hopeless at scripture recitation. He knew the gist of most of the stories, especially the ones about ancient heroes who saved humanity with the help of the gods. But he’d also spent most of the special class for kids after worship thinking about being on the ice, replaying moments from games, anticipating drills, and there didn’t seem to be room in his brain for hockey _and_ passages from scripture.

“Um,” he mumbled, buying time. “It says, um. That we need to be...careful.” That seemed safe. 

His dad slid him a knowing glance. Sidney looked pointedly out the window.

With a sigh, his dad filled in, “Scripture says that intimacy is a gift from the gods. It’s special.”

Sidney nodded. According to the grownups in the community, nearly everything was a gift from the gods because it taught you something, even bad stuff, like being sad or stubbing your toe. He’d been told nearly every day since he could remember that his skill at hockey, and the inevitable jealousy of the other kids on his team that often morphed into cruelty, were both gifts that he needed to treasure it and be worthy of it every day. It was confusing.

“As you get older, it might be difficult to remember sometimes to protect intimacy like the gift it is. To keep it safe. It’s going to be hard work.” 

Sidney perked up at that. He was good at hard work. Sometimes he came home from practice and went down and shot pucks at the dryer for another two hours. Hard work made sense because it usually led to something good, like scoring a goal or getting his teammates to stop chirping him about being orthodox for a while.

“Gifts are precious, and they need to be protected. Remember that.”

“Okay,” Sidney said. He didn’t shrug because his dad didn’t really like shrugging. When the gods gave a gift, you took care of it. Everyone knew that, or at least the people Sid knew. Maybe not so much the kids on the team, who swore a lot and changed in the locker room even though everyone could see their bare skin. But people in the community knew that, like his mom and dad, and that was most important. 

And somehow they had gotten deeply off track from what Sidney had originally wanted to talk about. That happened a lot with his dad.

“So,” Sidney said carefully, trying to refocus because he really wanted a final answer on the tongue thing. Surely that couldn't be the standard method. “Kissing.” 

“Don’t do it,” his dad said sternly. “Not ever, until you’re matched and married.” A small smile curved his mouth. “Especially not with tongues.”

Sidney wrinkled his nose. That was fine by him.

And now, more than ten years later, here he was unable to tell if he felt like he’d been careless with a gift, just like his dad warned. If he should have tried harder. If what he felt was the loss of intimacy, or something more complicated.

He started the car and pulled away from the curb, driving back to Mario’s on autopilot, fretting.

It wasn't like he could match with Geno anyway. Geno wasn't even just lapsed, he was a nonbeliever. Maybe in some less rigid sects a lapsed boy or girl as an unexpected match might not be the end of the world, it might be a small scandal but the matchmaker could smooth it over with the rest of the community.

Not Sidney. Not in Sidney’s family. Not in Cole Harbor. He just knew his parents would never forgive him. His sister would be shrouded in the kind of disgrace that meant she’d probably never find a match of her own. His aunts and uncles would take it in shifts to call and ask why he was intent on bringing shame onto the whole community. Some of his older cousins would probably pile into a few cars and come driving down to pound on the Lemieux’s door to ask what in the gods Sidney was thinking.

He wandered into the house, a little adrift, and toed off his shoes.

Mario found in the kitchen, listless peeling an orange. He sat on a stool beside him. “Sid, are you alright?” 

He blinked, rubbing both hands over his face. “Yep. All good.” 

“You sure?” Mario reached a hand out toward Sidney’s face, and Sidney did the best he could to not twitch away. Mario had gotten better but he still seemed to think he was somehow Sidney’s Pittsburgh dad and therefore the rules regarding modesty and touch were relaxed. Luckily, Mario paused, hand aloft. “You look all flushed.”

When Sidney shrugged, Mario looked behind him and around him. “Didn't you get anything from the store?” 

“Um, they didn’t have what I wanted.” He held out the keys, which Mario took, gently. “Thanks for letting me borrow the car.” 

Mario took the keys, still studying Sid’s face. “You were gone for a while. Did you stop somewhere?”

Sidney was a bad liar. Every kid in Sid’s community was taught over and over that lying was an affront to the gods, but mostly Sidney just didn’t have the creativity. So he tended to stick to the truth. “I needed to drop something off at Gonch’s, for Geno.”

It didn’t feel like the wrong thing to say since there was no way Mario could know what Sidney had really gotten up to, but Mario’s eyebrows went up anyway. “Did you, now.”

Like a miracle, Nathalie chose that moment to poke her head out of the hallway from behind Mario. “Hey Sid, thought I heard you. We’re having lasagna for dinner, you hungry?” The Lemieux always ate dinner early on Sundays, even though Sidney was used to be big family meals late after worship. It was an adjustment.

She seemed to take in the scene then, Sidney’s shoulders at his ears, Mario’s intent look. “Why don’t you go wash up, if you need to,” she told Sidney. “We’ll call you when it’s ready.” She looked at Mario. “You, come help me get the pan from the fridge into the oven, it’s heavy.”

Mario gave him a last look, like what he really wanted to do was captain the truth out of him, but Sidney took the out Nathalie offered and slipped gratefully away to his room before Mario had the chance.

Upstairs, he was too restless to shower, so he pulled his phone out of his pocket and looked at it for a while. 

He needed to call his family back. He was being a child.

He yanked the phone open and dialed home in one movement before he had time to overthink it.

It rang once, twice, and right when he was about to lose his nerve it connected.

“Crosby residence,” Sidney heard his dad say, stern voice familiar. He’d been expecting his mom but in the end his dad was just as well. He’d probably be the one with the final say on this anyway.

“I don’t want to go on any more match dates for now,” Sidney said all at once. “I was serious. Am serious. I need to stop for a while, and focus up for the next few week.”

On the other end, he heard his dad breathe in, breathe out. “That’s not really your decision to make on your own, is it, pal?” he noted in the even voice that would usually mean Sidney was about to get grounded when he was a little kid. 

But he wasn’t little. Not anymore. “But I should have a say.” 

That made his dad sigh. “Oh, Sid. Your mother and I, we never wanted you to feel like....” He cleared his throat. “I’ll tell you what. We’ll back off for a few weeks.” 

A few weeks. No more awkward match dates for a few weeks. It sounded like paradise.

“But only if you call back later to apologize to your mother when she’s back from her errands.” 

“Yes, sir.”

“Because that’s not how we raised you, to speak to her like that. That’s not how this community raised you.”

“Yes, sir.”

Eventually, his dad switched to talking about Sid's wrist shot, and how he needed to strengthen his lower core to really get the power behind his shot he needed, and finally they hung up, Sidney by turns elated at the stay of match dates and dreading the prospect of calling later to apologize to his mom, who would be rightfully angry but also disappointed.

The phone vibrated again in his hand.

He was sure it was his dad, calling back to lecture him about some other point he’d forgotten initially, but Sidney looked at the screen and saw it was Geno. 

Sidney felt himself go immediately red and sweaty, which was crazy. It was just Geno. Even if he knew what Geno's lips felt like know. How they tasted. He went even redder at the thought. Finally, Sidney flipped the phone open cautiously.

“Hello?” 

“Hey, Sid,” Geno said, voice low. 

“Uh. Hey. Hi.” Sid rubbed his free hand on his jeans.

There was a pause. “Get home okay?” 

He eased himself onto the couch, bringing his knees up so he could rest his chin. He made a humming sound. Of course he’d gotten home okay.

“Ksenia making hamburgers for dinner,” Geno said vaguely, cautiously. Testing the waters.

Sid returned the volley. “Nathalie’s making lasagna.”

“You cook, Sid?”

“A little. My mom wanted to teach me before I left for Shattuck, but I’ve lived with billet families since. Never needed to do it much.” 

“I not cook at all. Not even eggs.”

He sounded almost proud. Sidney snorted. “How is that possible?” 

“Mama try. She show me eggs, pancakes, some soup. One day I start fire, almost burn down building.”

“Geno! Jeez, really?” 

Geno chuckled. “Mama say maybe I good for now, after that.”

Sidney could practically see Geno’s mischievous face, the way his tongue was probably poking out of the corner of his mouth as he spoke.

Despite himself, Sidney fell into the natural rhythm of their usual conversations, only this time they didn’t talk about whatever failed match date Sid had just returned from. They meandered through cooking topics for a bit, then their next couple of games on the road, light gossip about the girl Tanger had been dating, and by the time Sidney hung up, he was smiling to himself.

 

*

 

By the time practice rolled around the next day, Zhenya had more or less convinced himself that what had happened on Sunday with Sidney was a moment of insanity, nothing more. A moment they certainly would never repeat, and possibly never even talk about, if the way Sidney was avoiding him in the room and on the ice was any indication. 

Zhenya and Sergei rolled in as most of the guys were largely ready to get on the ice, Tanger and Duper playing out some ridiculous bit in French that had Sidney giggling between them as he finished taping his stick.

He didn’t look at Zhenya, which was fine. They weren't talking about it. It was totally fine. Zhenya was fine with it. 

Which meant no one was more surprised than Zhenya when halfway through what had turned into more or less a bag skate of a practice, Sidney sidled over, face decidedly casual. Too casual. Sidney was never that casual about anything, especially with a stick in his hand. 

“So I was thinking about making dinner the day after tomorrow," he said. Every word was measured in a way Zhenya associated with having rehearsed. "Mario and Nathalie have a thing with the kids, so it’s just me at the house. And we have the day off after the game tomorrow.” 

Zhenya nodded, trying to follow. It was a lot of words, and Sidney was talking fast. Zhenya leaned on his stick, still catching his breath in the lull between passing drills. 

“Okay,” he said, when Sidney paused to look at him expectantly.

“So I was thinking you could. I don’t know. Come eat dinner with me.”

It was such an outrageous thing to come out of Sidney’s mouth that Zhenya honestly thought his English had failed him. An afternoon of kissing could be written off as insanity, maybe, with enough mental gymnastics. An invitation to dine in an empty house alone together after kissing? Unbelievable.

If this were any other hookup Zhenya would be quietly pleased, maybe lean in with a smirk and say something suggestive with a dumb food innuendo, possibly reach over and touch the side of Sidney’s neck, make him shiver.

But this wasn’t any other hookup. This wasn't even a _hookup_ , this was Sidney, sheltered and blushing and gritting his teeth and staring up at Zhenya like he was at the circle staring down the puck. 

“Um.” Zhenya rubbed the back of his neck, head tilted, needing to confirm one way or the other. “Who else be there?” Surely it was a team thing. 

Sidney glanced down and away, then back up again. “No one else,” he said, like a dare.

Beneath the sweat from, practice Sidney looked visibly queasy, like he couldn’t quite believe his own daring but he was prepared to power through with his own brand of Crosby intensity and stubbornness.

And that was all Zhenya could take. He needed to call a TO.

“We talk after change,” he said firmly.

He watched Sidney’s eyes widen slightly. “Wh—okay.” 

“After change. We talk. We talk about,” Zhenya lowered his voice, even though the rink was loud with the rest of the guys yelling at each other and skates on ice, and even though it was the literal last thing he wanted to be specific about, said, “yesterday.” 

In what was possibly the first instance of its kind, Sidney stumbled over nothing, skates slipping so that Zhenya found himself reflexively reaching out to steady him. 

There were layers of pads between them and there was nothing remotely inappropriate about the touch, not when they were both suited up. Still, Zhenya gritted his teeth, fighting the instinct to squeeze Sidney's bicep.

“Easy,” he murmured. 

“I’m fine,” Sidney insisted. He wouldn't look Zhenya in the eye, obviously hoping they were just going to power through without ever directly addressing the making out, and while Zhenya could sympathize, the last thing he wanted was for Sid to feel obligated to do something he didn't want to do again.

Gods, Zhenya hoped they did it again.

“Okay. You fine. We talk,” Zhenya said, eyebrows up. “After.”

“Fine,” Sidney grumbled, pretty adorably, if Zhenya was being brutally honest with himself.

“Hey, hand check over there!” Tanger hollered from the D-line.

Zhenya realized he was still holding Sidney’s arm, actually tugging him so he leaned into Zhenya slightly. He let go hastily enough that Sidney wobbled on his skates again, but catching himself immediately, of course. He turned to Tanger to yell a weak, chirping, “Mind your business!” (Zhenya was pretty sure he was the only one who noticed the slight shake in his voice) before skating away.

He watched Sid go, his own heart beating fast, probably just from practice. Therrien wasn’t taking it easy on anyone. It was nearly Zhenya’s turn at the line again. He shook himself and moved into position.

From across the ice, Sergei was watching him, but Zhenya studiously ignored his hawk eye.

He more or less lost track of Sid until after practice was ending and he was finishing up his cool down. He’d been practicing a few yoga positions he'd gotten from Mike the trainer. He was getting into it. He’d always been flexible and it felt good to push his muscles a little extra, letting them flex like rubber bands. He looked up as Duper wandered through, looking for a chirp victim, most likely. 

“Nice legs,” Duper said.

Even in English, Zhenya could hear a tone. “Yes, very pretty,” he said evenly.

Duper smirked, stretching his arms over his head. “Definitely. Like a beautiful chicken." 

Zhenya rolled his eyes. He'd learned and forgotten more insults about his skinny legs than Duper would be able to think of in his entire life. “Hey, Duper.” When Duper raised his eyebrows in question, Zhenya released his grip on his inner quad and flicked him off with both hands. “Fuck you.”

Duper was shoving Zhenya onto his side while Zhenya grabbed his ankle, trying to take him down with him, when the door to the bike room swung open and Sid stepped in. Sid caught sight of them and paused in the doorway, eyes darting to where Duper and Zhenya were touching, bare skin mostly with just t-shirts and compression shorts between them. 

Zhenya froze with Duper’s arm around his shoulder, oddly uncomfortable. It must look kind of indecent to someone like Sid, the way guys in the room strutted around in next to nothing and touched each other all the time. Sid must spend half his time cataloging the team’s heathen ways.  

Then he felt a little annoyed for being embarrassed. It wasn’t like _Zhenya_ wasn’t allowed to touch Duper or people outside of his family. He wasn’t the orthodox one.  

“Hey Sid,” Duper said affably, releasing Zhenya and stepping away. “You want to get some food with me and Tanger? Practice your terrible garbage French?” 

Sidney rose to the bait, insisting long-sufferingly, "My French is not garbage, your face is garbage," then, squaring his shoulders, “No, I’m.” He met Zhenya’s eyes. “Geno, I wanted to talk to you about the lines for St. Louis.” 

Zhenya did his best not to roll his eyes. Sidney would never win an Emmy for his acting, that was for sure.

“Alright, well we’re heading out after I shower if you change your mind,” Duper said, unbothered. He went to leave and then glanced over his shoulder, apparently taking in the empty room, save for Zhenya and Sidney. He looked to Sid, uncertain. “Or I guess, I could stay? Chaperone. Keep everything, you know. Appropriate.” He waggled his fingers between Sidney and Zhenya suggestively. “Wouldn’t want Geno here to make a pass or something.” 

Duper laughed. He was joking. Zhenya grinned weakly back.

Sidney shook his head. “It’s fine, the door’s open.” He wasn’t looking at Zhenya now, which was probably good because Zhenya was pretty sure he made a face at that.

It had been a while, but he didn’t remember an open door making any difference when it came to two unmatched, unrelated young people being alone. Still, he decided not to blow Sid’s cover. 

“You sure? I can stay, keep an eye out.” Duper scowled, exaggerating it for effect. “No funny business. Good practice for when the kids get older, you know?”

Sidney was starting to blush and Zhenya took pity. “We good, Duper. Go,” he said, gruff, but he was getting impatient. He needed to talk to Sidney, alone, now, and if Sid was willing to pretend like all of the sudden orthodox rules could be lifted, then Zhenya wasn’t going to argue.

Duper held his hands up in defense. “Hey, I’m Catholic, I don’t know the rules.”

“Thank you for thoughtful, Duper. Goodbye, Duper,” Zhenya intoned. 

He watched Duper shrug and head out, saying something in French as he left that made Sid duck his head. He was smiling though, so Zhenya figured it wasn’t anything mean, so he stayed where he was sprawled on the ground.

And finally they were alone, Duper’s steps receding down the hall until only the distant muzak of the training room hummed in the air. 

Sidney leaned against a bike and crossed his arms. He was glaring at a little, staring at the ground. 

“Why you pout?” 

That made Sid snap his head up. “I’m not pouting. Shut up.” Zhenya waited him out, until Sid sighed, arms dropping to his sides, hair wet and curling along his neck. He looked good, and Zhenya forced himself to ignore it, for now. “I just kind of wish they wouldn’t do that?”

Mostly distracted from stretching now, Zhenya hugged his knees to his chest. “Do what?”

“Try to help, quite so much. With orthodox stuff.” He sank slowly onto the mat, ankles crossed, a few feet between them. Close enough if Zhenya reached he could easily wrap a hand around his ankle. He carefully kept his eyes on Sid’s face. “It’s not like they understand anything about it,” Sidney grumbled.

Speaking of the intricacies of orthodox chaperoning social conventions. It was a perfect opening, really. “So Sid not worry about rules now?”

“It’s not a rule, it’s not like it’s in scripture,” Sidney said. It sounded like something he’d been practicing to himself. “It’s just tradition, kind of. It’s just how things are done.” 

That sounded like a rule to Zhenya. “Lot of traditions,” he said carefully. “I remember, hard to...follow, sometimes.”

Zhenya meant the sheer magnitude, how when he was little he would sometimes be playing quietly by himself and his grandmother would come over and start scolding him for rolling his sleeves up to expose his forearms or forgetting to get up and offer all the adults in the room a beverage. He didn’t know how adults remembered all of the rules and the traditions and the way things were done, but really his grandmother scolded the adults nearly as much as the kids. Apparently, they couldn’t remember everything, either. 

It was possible that was just his grandmother, though. Zhenya hesitated to label her a tyrant, but she was definitely tyrant-adjacent.

When Zhenya glanced up, Sidney was distracted looking at Zhenya’s mouth. May the gods help them both.

“Sid, why you ask me to dinner,” Zhenya asked. “We not match. Can't.” It was blunt but it needed to be said. “This not match date.”

Sidney looked affronted. He looked away from Zhenya's lips at least, a little more clear-eyed as he frowned. “I know that.” 

“Then why.” Why was he taking this risk, why was he taking this risk with _Zhenya_? Why wasn’t Zhenya putting a stop to it, even. Zhenya wanted answers to all of these but he couldn’t articulate it in English, so he pressed. “ _Sidney_.” 

Sidney’s mouth was clamped mulishly shut. They stared each other down.

“Why, Sid.” 

When he still didn’t answer, Zhenya lost his mind for a second and reached over to wrap his hand around Sidney’s bony ankle. 

They both sucked in a breath. Sidney stared at Zhenya’s hand, fascinated. 

Zhenya needed to take his hand away. He couldn’t really explain why he’d even reached out in the first place. He didn’t understand why Sidney wasn’t yanking his leg away, given they were alone once more, no chaperone in sight, not even Duper. 

Slowly, he shifted his grip to rub a thumb over the knob on Sidney's ankle just lightly, wry leg hair tickling the pad of his thumb. 

“Geno,” Sidney said on an exhale. He was still staring at Zhenya’s hand, like he couldn’t believe it (Zhenya couldn’t believe it either, really), and Zhenya was watching his face, the way he swiped his tongue to wet his lips, his pink cheeks and dark hair and strong neck and shoulders.

Zhenya didn’t think of himself as an unkind person. He didn’t get annoyed at sharing the spotlight with Sidney, hell, with _giving_ the spotlight to Sidney, especially with media, but maybe that one had an ulterior motive. He happily watched Sergei and Ksenia’s little girls on the rare nights they had off so they could go out just the two of them. He held doors open for his elders, but for the older guys on the team it was mostly just to be a dick. He liked to tease and bully, before he’d come to the Pens at least, but he always made a point not to do it to the shyer guys, or the newer call-ups. He called his mother every week. He loved animals. 

He was a good person, generally, although none of that was apparent as he tightened his hand around Sid’s ankle and tugged once, firmly, and watched with satisfaction as Sidney put up zero resistance and let his leg be dragged closer to Zhenya until he was in a sprawl, foot nearly in Zhenya’s lap, one hand hind him to stay sitting upright. 

Sidney’s chest was rising with each breath, Zhenya watching hungrily.

Shit, he needed to stop this. He was the more experienced one here, also older by a few months, so, therefore, he needed to be the more mature one here and get up and leave. 

“Sid, this no good,” he said in a low voice. 

“Yeah,” Sidney whispered. He looked a little dazed. 

“This bad.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Stop say _yeah_ ,” Zhenya demanded, a little growly, but it wasn’t fair for Sidney to look all ripe and innocent and leave it up to Zhenya to observe the ridiculous confines of Sidney’s restrictive religion for him, Zhenya was _barely_ older, damnit, it shouldn’t be up to just him. Sidney should be acting more responsibly. He was the one going on match dates, for the love of the gods. He was going to be matched to some nice orthodox boy or girl any week now, maybe any day.

Then he definitely wouldn’t be calling Zhenya up every few nights to laugh about another failed date, and then babble about hockey while Zhenya shittalked his wrong opinions over thirty or forty minutes of directionless conversation before they finally hung up and Zhenya went to bed smiling, not really sure why (not really wanting to admit why, at least). 

It wasn’t fair.

His mother would wring his neck if she could hear his thoughts. 

Fucking shit. Zhenya released Sidney’s ankle suddenly, Sid’s lax body falling back without the support of Zhenya’s grip. His knees fell apart. He looked indecent. Zhenya wanted to climb on top of him and wreck him.

Instead, he clambered to his feet, fuming at them both. Sidney was gazing up at Zhenya with his dark eyes wide and dazed.

“I see you tomorrow, for dinner,” Zhenya said, resigned.

Still, he paused, looming over Sid feeling like some kind of hulking heathen lust monster trying to despoil Canada's crownedorthodox prince, and waited for him to wise up and rescind the invitation.

“Okay,” Sid said on a stutter. He pulled his feet in, hand wrapping around his ankle where Zhenya had been. He nodded dumbly. “Okay. After the game.”

Zhenya nodded curtly and made himself step away and walk out of the room. He didn’t look over his shoulder. He was too worried if he did, and Sidney was still looking at him, he'd turn right around and go back in. 

 

*

 

Sidney called his mother the next morning and apologized. They almost never fought and they both started stumbling over the other to apologize almost as soon as his mom answered the phone. 

“I didn’t think enough of how you must be feeling,” his mom said, just as Sid was getting out—“I shouldn’t have lost my temper. I shouldn’t have hung up. I was wrong.” 

His mom sighed. “I know this has been a long process. You’ve been incredibly disciplined. You always are.”

Guilt wasn’t an unfamiliar emotion for Sidney. He felt guilty about a lot things, pretty evenly split between hockey and the match process lately. The knowlege of what he'd done with Geno sat differently, like a stone inside him.

He’d kissed someone. He’d been touched by someone, not innocently, not on accident or on the ice. He wanted to do it again. 

“We just want you to be happy, of course we do,” his mom was saying. “Your father and I both. With the right match.”

“I do, too,” Sid mumbled. And it was true. He did. He wanted it the way he wanted to win the cup some day, with the same targeted ambition that still felt too big and abstract to truly be attainable without contantly straining and pushing for it.

“And if taking a few weeks off from match dates is what it takes, well. It’s not ideal. Your father already talked to you this, right?” 

Sidney made a noise of assent. It had felt too good to be true, at first, and even now he had a hard time believing his mom would go along with it. They had put so much into helping Sidney find a match. Everyone in the community would be talking if Sidney stopped going on match dates.

Lyanne would get a talking to from the matchmaker, at the very least. “I don’t want to get anyone in trouble.”

“Don’t worry about your aunt, or about us. We’ll be fine.” His mom’s voice was soft. Sidney was hit with a sharp wish to be in the living room with her, sitting on the couch, letting her cluck at him and fuss with his hair. He wished he could both go home and still play in the league if miracles really were possible. 

His wistfulness lasted until his mom added, meaningfully, “But hear me: This is not forever. You need to be ready to give it your best effort when we start back up.”

So it was to be a stay of execution at best, he thought dully, even as he scolded himself for being dramatic. He _wanted_ a match, he reminded himself. Just because he was taking a few maintenance days didn't mean his whole future had to change. No matter how many teammates he kissed.

He didn’t respond or object, staying carefully silent until she relented and steered the conversation to some light gossip about a couple of his cousins, and the trouble they got in when they stole another cousin’s birthday cake from the fridge. 

As they went to hang up, his mom asked her usual, “Have you been praying?”

Sidney had gotten used to the question, and to obliquely lying in his answer. He felt spiritual a lot of the time, even if he didn’t sit down and intentionally pray. Most of the time when he was supposed to be praying, before meals or bed or in the morning when he got out of bed, he was thinking about playing. And his hockey was gift from the gods, so it felt like praying, too. 

He’d never admitted it to anyone, least of all his mom. He wasn’t about to start now.

“Yes,” he promised instead and said goodbye and good night and I love you, and told her to tell Taylor too, and his dad, and the cousins, and Lyanne, and by the time he got off the phone it was time for his nap. 

They lost to the Blues, at home, which was always a kick in the ass, but not for lack of effort on Mario’s part, at least. Sid had an assist, but it still didn’t feel like enough. He was distracted, and he berated himself for letting outside worries take his head out of the game. Media was a slog, too many strangers asking him why he’d seemed so off.

“You just try to go out there every game and give it your all, and do your best for your team,” he said, fiercely bland, until the last reporter left him alone.

Mario tried to pull him out of his funk on the drive home but Sidney was mostly quiet, and by the time Mario and Nathalie were leaving with the kids for dinner at Nathalie’s mother’s house, Sidney was regretting his daring dinner invitation to Geno. But there was no avoiding it now, and Sidney wasn't going to back to down anyway. He hated losing his nerve. He got to work on dinner.

Geno was in a mood when he showed up at Mario’s, and Sidney was still scowling, and for some reason it relaxed Sid right away.

“Blues horrible bad team,” Geno said as soon as Sidney opened the door. “No reason we not win.”

It was almost a relief, really, compared with Mario and Tanger and Duper all trying to get Sid to go easier on himself, which was insane. Success required sacrifice and humility. If that meant going harder on yourself after a game, so be it. As Sidney’s dad would say, the gods expected anguish if their gifts were squandered or overlooked. Arguing pissily with Geno made him feel humble, he decided, even if it was also satisfying.

“We can’t win if our passes don’t connect and we’re not looking for each other out there.” He gave Geno a sharp look. “And if we take stupid penalties that leave some of us in the box for three minutes.”

Geno scowled. “Don’t even.”

“You don’t even, that was stupid and it cost us the possession.”

“Stop whine.” Geno reached out and placed his entire palm on Sidney’s face like a dickhead. Sidney thrilled a little at the touch, the casual ownership, but tried to be cool as he shoved the hand away. “We got it back.”

He let himself keep bickering about the game with Geno until neither of them was annoyed anymore and were mostly just chattering about nothing.

He pulled out the salmon and vegetable medley that all went on one tray in the oven and was incredibly simple and mindless. Geno reacted like he’d pulled a rabbit out a top hat. 

“How it all done so perfectly?” he asked in awe. “Nothing burn!” 

“It’s nothing special, come on.” 

Geno made a show of taking a big bite and moaning as he chewed. “So good, Sid! Swear.”

Sidney suspected he was playing it up and it was a little old fashioned to be so tickled by it but he let himself preen a little anyway. He'd never had the chance to learn to be much of homemaker.

They were both pretty wrung out from the game so it was a quiet dinner, but comfortable. Sidney didn’t feel the pressure to make stupid small talk. Geno kept glancing up at him and smirking. It was nice.

It made him think about one of his last match dates, with a lady named Anne. They’d spent the whole time at the coffee shop unable to get on the same rhythm. Sidney would go to speak, and she would interrupt, or she’d say something just as Sidney did, until they were both so gun-shy about being impolite and talking over one another they sat in grim silence until the check came. 

“Thanks for taking the time to meet with me,” Anne had said quietly. “I know how busy you are.” 

“It was my pleasure,” Sidney had lied stiffly, telling himself that Anne wasn’t even the worst of his matches, not by a long shot, but he still couldn’t wait to get home and call Geno. 

And as he sat with Geno and ate now, he was struck by the easy back and forth. They connected on the ice in a way he’d never felt with another player, but he’d also never felt this comfortable around someone who wasn’t his family. And even then, he sometimes held himself apart, not wanting to disappoint his mom or his dad, or open himself up to teasing with his cousins.

With Geno, he just talked, and argued about Geno’s wrong opinions about the PK, and they chirped each other breezily when a topic got slow. It felt nothing like a match date because it was all so _easy_.

That was, until the moment Geno threw his head back to laugh at something dumb Sidney had said and Sidney caught himself staring at the line of his neck. 

He felt hyper-aware of his breathing, slightly awkward as he sat in the chair, so he stood up abruptly and began taking their plates to the sink. 

Geno looked bemused, spearing his last bite off the plate as Sidney lifted it away. “So polite. Very gentleman.”

He looked a little smug, watching Sidney. It made Sidney want to push back. Do something unexpected.

He let his shoulder brush deliberately against Geno’s as he passed. “Shut it.”

Geno smiled, looking delighted at Sid's daring. “That not as polite. Lose points. You talk to a match like that?”

Sidney let the plates clatter into the sink. “No. Never. I could never tell a match to shut up when they’re being annoying. I just have to put up with it.”

“So this not like match, then.” 

“No. Not at all.” 

Which Sid meant as a compliment, he realized. If his match dates were like this he probably would have already matched. When he turned back to Geno, though, he was wearing a strange expression. 

Before Sidney could say anything about Geno's face cleared. “What we do now?” he asked.

Sidney froze. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. He looked around the kitchen like the room would give him answers, but he wasn’t sure what two unrelated people alone did for fun. They still had a few hours before Mario and the family would be back. They couldn't just sit at the table and stare at each other.

If this was a match date, he’d either already have made enough of an ass of himself or the other person had done something sufficiently off-putting that he was counting the minutes until he could acceptably cut it short. But right now all he wanted to do was draw this out, make Geno stay. 

Geno watched him, rocking on his heels, and then like he could hear Sidney’s fretting, offered, “Sharks play Habs.”

Sidney grinned, relieved. It was only seven in California, the game just started. If there was one upside to risking forbidden un-chaperoned hangouts with a teammate, it was that Sidney didn’t have to pretend like all he really cared about was hockey. 

He watched Geno amble to the couch and sit right in the middle, stretching both long arms along the top, shirt riding up to show a little of his belly.

Well, one of a few upsides, really.

Trying to play it cool as his heart galloped along fast enough it was nearly painful, Sidney settled down beside him and let the dip of the cushions tucked him easily into Geno’s side.

“So you never do this? Hang out alone?” Geno asked as he flipped on the TV. His hand dangled loosely over Sidney’s shoulder, fingers brushing carelessly at the loose neckline of his t-shirt. 

“What? _No_.”

“Not with guy from team?” 

“Of course not!” Sidney said loudly, stung. Of course he had never....that was the reason this was so _insane_ , Sidney didn’t _do_ things like this. He’d thought it was obvious. 

Geno snorted. He gestured pointedly with his chin at where Sidney was leaning against him, even as they were starting to squabble. “No ‘of course,’ Sid. Just check.”

Still miffed, Sidney was silent as he watched game. After a moment Geno squeezed his shoulder. 

“Offend?” he asked, half turned to study Sid’s face. 

“A little,” Sid admitted. The last thing he wanted was for Geno to think he was some kind of sham orthodox. Or that he did what they were doing with all kinds of people. He couldn't imagine doing this with anyone _but_ Geno.

They were quiet for a while. Geno didn't take his arm from around Sidney's shoulder. Eventually, Sidney got caught up watching, the reffing was terrible and he couldn't help chirping a few turnovers, but when he glanced to see if Geno had seen the play Geno was watching him.

When Sidney turned his head, Geno pressed closer. Sidney stilled, heart beginning to thump. 

“Sid." Geno's voice was quiet but forceful. He was so close Sidney could feel his breath on his face. "You know...you know, even though we. Even though we kiss.” Sidney ducked his head, discomfited to hear it stated so plainly out loud. “Even though. Can always say stop, if you want. We not have to do again. Or we always stop, if you want.”

“I _know_ , Geno,” Sidney said, trying not to whine, but seriously, he wasn’t some little kid.

“Sidney.” Geno put his hand on Sidney’s jaw and tilted his face up. The contact made any possible future whine die in Sidney's throat. “Serious. Just because we do once, don’t have to again. You know?” Geno looked incredibly somber as he looked down at Sidney. Like he was telling Sidney something significant. 

But it wasn’t a surprise, really. To hear that Geno would never make him do something he didn’t want to do. He didn’t have any grand expectations for Sid, at least not on the ice. Sidney could be in control. In a manner of speaking.

Carefully, Sidney covered Geno’s hand with his own. “I know that, Geno. Thank you.” He slid the hand down to circle Geno’s wrists. He loved Geno’s wrists. 

Neither of them had much interest in the hockey game after that.

Holding Geno’s gaze, Sidney leaned back, lightly pulling Geno as Sid leaned back on the couch. Geno was watching him, barely blinking, eyes hot. Sidney loved it. It was like Geno couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He struck by the same urge from earlier to shock him. 

Sidney couldn’t say what possessed him, but he let his knees fall open, one foot coming to rest flat on the floor. Geno froze, staring down at him. His eyes trailed from Sidney’s face down to his hips, his mouth dropping open slightly. 

“Sid.” His voice was so deep. He put his free hand on Sidney’s leg, just above his knee, and squeezed.

A moan slipped out of Sidney’s mouth, unbidden.

Geno surged forward, covering Sidney with his long torso. “Fuck, Sid.” He stuck his face into Sidney’s neck, inhaling sharply. He moved both hands to clutch at Sidney’s waist, hard, hard enough it hurt but Sidney liked it anyway, wished it was harder.

“Geno, I—I,” Sidney said mindlessly. He had no idea what to do with his hands. Before, at Gonch’s he’d been driven mostly by adrenaline and a stubborn refusal to back down, but now he was thinking about it and he wasn’t sure. His hands fluttered uselessly at Geno’s back, light touches at his shoulder blades and traps. 

“Touch, Sid,” Geno said, mouth hot on his skin. “Can touch.”

Going for it, Sidney put the flat of his palm at the base of Geno’s neck and dragged it firmly down the length of his spine.

Geno arched his back into it, little noises coming out as he mouthed at Sidney’s neck.

Sidney’s hand stopped at the dip of Geno’s back, too cowardly to go all the way to his ass, even though he wanted to, he realized. He wanted to feel it. He wanted to squeeze it, squeeze it hard and see if Geno liked it to hurt a little bit, too. 

Geno pressed a hard kiss to the join of his neck and shoulder, pressed his teeth in, then started to suck.

Sidney’s mouth dropped open. “Ah, ah,” he cried out, almost a yelp. He grabbed at Geno’s head with both hands, holding him there. “That’s—that’s.” He couldn’t get a word out, kept moaning under the sensation as it twisted and went hot and started to hurt and then feel so good Sidney was shivering all over.

He felt Geno teasing Sidney’s t-shirt, just barely, fingers skimming under to brush Sidney’s hip bones. 

“Sid,” Geno muttered as he pulled back. Sidney tried to hold him to that place on his neck that still felt tender but Geno’s resisted, moving so his face was just a few inches from Sidney’s. Sidney made a whiny sound and Geno smirked. “Be good.” 

The words made Sidney’s body feel liquid and he relaxed, panting lightly as he stared up and waited, until Geno reached and cupped his hands around Sidney’s head and brought their mouths together in a hot, wet crush that made his head go silent and blank save for the pounding of the blood in his ears.

His dick was getting stiff and his face was hot, embarrassed, but he couldn’t pull away, just hoped that Geno wouldn’t notice or if he did, wouldn’t care enough to stop kissing him like he was now, licking inside his mouth, biting at Sid’s lip, sucking on his tongue until Sidney couldn’t help but squirm and press closer.

Geno seemed to love how Sidney couldn’t help but move, pressing into it, wiggling to get closer. He kept both big hands on Sidney’s head, just moving him into the position Geno wanted, tilting his chin to get better access to his mouth, tipping Sidney’s head so Geno could mouth at his neck. Sidney didn’t fight it, feeling limp and happy to be muscled around, going where Geno wanted to go. 

Then Geno shifted just slightly and their hips were pressed together for a blindingly hot moment and Sidney could feel how hard Geno was too, their dicks were actually pressing right _together_ , it was unbelievable, everything felt like it was moving in slow motion. Sidney’s hands were shaking, he realized, where they were clutched into Geno’s t-shirt, holding him the cradle of Sid’s legs. 

He was about to come for the first time in front of another person, he noted dazedly, amazed at how near the edge he was. He was going to come on Mario Lemieux’s couch, Geno’s hands on his face, elbows anchored to the couch above Sidney’s shoulders, pinning him down as Sidney’s hips hitched closer and closer, seeking the contact.

The most sinful thing of all was that he wanted it more than anything. 

“We can’t,” Geno gasped. He was rolling his body against Sid’s still though, his knee wedged between Sidney’s legs. He wanted to press against it, to rut, it should be shameful, Sid should be ashamed, but he couldn’t stop pressing closer. “Need to stop.” Geno bit at Sidney’s neck again, lightly.

Sidney threw his head back. “Geno,” he bit out, overwhelmed. 

That seemed to startle Geno out of whatever haze he’d been trapped in, the same haze where Sidney was happily floating along. 

Geno pulled away, ignoring Sidney’s protests, and sat at the other end of the couch.

He was breathing hard. Sidney could barely catch his breath.

Geno was still breathless when he spoke. “Almost go...almost go, too far.” 

Sidney blinked, startled. They had, he realized. He almost couldn’t believe it. He looked down at his crotch, his dick still hard and pressing against his jeans. Geno cursed in Russian, watching him. 

Geno cursed in Russian, watching him. “Sid, careful. We need be careful. More.”

An unwelcome voice in his head whispered that he was going to be out on more match dates soon. It was only a matter of time. His mom had said. And he didn’t know how he could look a match in the face knowing he was impure.

Or, at least more impure than he already was, Sidney reckoned, since he was staring at Geno’s erection now, huge and evident beneath his sweats. Sidney’s mouth was watering. He swallowed, dragging his eyes to Geno’s. 

“Okay,” Sidney said. “We can’t go that far next time.”

A slow smile spread across Geno’s face. “Next time.”

He stood up then. Clearly, he was at the limits of his patience. Sidney could relate. 

As he walked by, he paused, then bent down and pressed a kiss to Sidney’s cheek. It was surprisingly chaste. Sweet, even. Sidney couldn’t help but reach out and cup his hand to Geno’s bare hip under his shirt, scant inches from where his dick lay thick and straining.

Geno huffed out a laugh, stepping back. “Sidney.” He sounded rueful. “Trouble. You trouble.” 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Sidney said huskily. He didn’t want Geno to leave now, but they’d already been reckless. If Geno stayed any longer tonight, Sidney certainly didn’t think he’d have the wherewithal to put the brakes on what happened next.

Scripture had no specific prohibitions against masturbation, but Sidney had been taught it was best to seek out self-control rather than give into carnal release. 

But when he heard the front door open and close as Geno left, not one thought of what he was taught was left in his head. He darted up the stairs in a flash, throwing himself on his bed and yanking his jeans down in one movement. His vision felt hazy, he needed to come so badly.

He rubbed the heel of his hand over the head of his dick, his balls aching, and managed to wrap a hand around in time to jerk a rough half dozen strokes before he was coming into a tissue grabbed hastily from his bedside table. 

He lay on his back, staring blindly at the ceiling as his heartbeat slowed down, his limbs light and noodly. 

Downstairs he heard the garage door open as the Lemieux’s came home but he didn't go down to say hi. Instead, he maintained his dreamy silence, drifting.

After a moment, he realized he was smiling to himself. Softly.

 

*

 

To Zhenya's lingering astonishment, it became something they did, after that. Pretty frequently, actually, edging out NHL hockey handily as the most intoxicating and most confusing part of Zhenya’s life in America.

They also hung out at Mario’s house a lot, mostly in the guest apartment Sidney occupied tucked into the eaves of the enormous mansion, which was equally unsettling but in a less sexy way.

At least once a week when they were on a home stand Zhenya would get a text from Sidney and head over, Sergei watching him leave with his eyebrows high.

Zhenya couldn’t help the way his shoulders hunched around his ears as he skulked out of the house after getting home and showering from practice, or the morning after a game, or on an afternoon of a rare day off. Even when he was exhausted, or bruised, and might otherwise have appreciated a nap. 

He always found himself going to Sidney.

For his part, Mario seemed keen to withhold judgment. Whenever he caught them loping upstairs his expression was frank enough that he obviously knew something untoward was happening up there, but at the same time, he didn’t intervene.

Zhenya would do his best to seem like an oblivious and non-threatening foreigner without a good enough grasp of English to do more than cheerfully wave. 

But Mario also seemed intent on treating Sidney like an adult. Sidney didn’t seem to notice, or if he did, he seemed more annoyed than anything. But Zhenya noticed that Mario was intentionally stepping back.

It was the exact opposite of what Sidney was probably used to with his family at home. It was like Mario was trying to send him a message, but it was probably too subtle for Sidney to catch, and Zhenya himself was too worked up about getting upstairs so they could engage in some gentle making out and over-the-clothes petting in peace to give it much more than a passing thought.

Sidney was so warm and sweet and liked to pull Zhenya over him so he covered Sidney’s body completely, pressing them together at the chest and hips and tangling their ankles together. Until Zhenya felt about two seconds from coming in his pants and he would make them separate so he could slink to the bathroom to take care of business.

Which was another key aspect of all of this: Zhenya was making it his mission to keep it as PG as possible. It made Zhenya feel like a virgin again, which he definitely was _not_ , thank you very much. He was twenty-two. He’d played professional hockey and in Russia collectively for several years now. He’d gotten his dick wet. 

And stopping in time was getting harder and harder pun absolutely one hundred percent intended.

“Geno,” Sidney would whine as Zhenya plucked his clingy fingers from Zhenya’s shirt, sliding back, “ _why_.”

“You know why, Sid,” Zhenya would groan, stepping a good three or four feet away so he wouldn’t tackle Sid back down and rub all over him like a cat in heat. 

And Sid did know why. He didn’t argue more than that, letting Zhenya retreat awkwardly with his unwelcome boner for privacy. He always looked a little—relieved, maybe. Curious, but nervous too.

Those nerves were what kept Zhenya from ever pushing for the more. The last thing he wanted was to make Sidney regret anything. Sidney would probably grow to regret so much of this already; Zhenya couldn’t bear to add more to the list.

Or maybe Sidney really was just experimenting. It didn’t make Zhenya feel great, but there it was, and it wasn’t like he was going to turning Sid down because of it.

On top of everything, they were on a hot streak on the ice. They weren’t predicted to make a strong run for the cup, or if they did, it wouldn’t be deep. But the season was shaping up to be more than acceptable for Zhenya’s first in the NHL.

Everything felt feather light and giddy as they neared the end of the regular season. Zhenya spent most of his time wandering around with an absent smile on his face, mind wondering, Sergei making a sour face whenever he caught sight of him.

Things were going so well it was east to forget there was always a catch. 

He hadn’t meant to tell anyone, especially not his brother. But he hadn’t meant to do a lot of things lately, so he shouldn’t be surprised that he fucked up this resolution, too. 

He didn’t realize how bad it sounded until it was out, the phone line silent like it too was shocked by what it had heard, and Zhenya winced. He didn’t have to wait long.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Denis sounded his signature frustrated and disappointed, which was comforting in its familiarity at the very least. “Messing around with an orthodox boy, what can you be thinking?” 

“We’re not ‘messing around,’ fuck’s sake,” Zhenya muttered. Even though they were, that was exactly what they were doing. But it just sounded ugly the way Denis said it.

“You’re taking advantage.” 

Zhenya sputtered in outrage mostly but also with an uncomfortable awareness of the shameful flush working its way up his collar. “What—I’m _not_ , that’s not what I’m doing.” 

It made it sound like Zhenya was luring in this innocent little urchin off the street, debauching him and then sending him on his way with a slap on the ass. It wasn’t _like that_ , Zhenya was always the one to pull away before it got too far, to separate them and set about straightening Sidney’s clothes while Sidney just stared at him, mouth red and swollen, eyes a little glazed, face heavily flushed, whining a little as Zhenya got up and went to the door like _Zhenya_ should somehow have the wherewithal to pump the brakes, even when he was still left panting, unable to make his heart slow, hard and aching and ready to jerk off as soon as he stepped into the safety of his own room at Sergei’s house, fuck, this was a mess, everything was just a mess. 

“Yep, sounds like you’ve got this all perfectly under control,” Denis said after a long pause when Zhenya realized he’d been doing nothing but breathing heavily into his end of the phone while Denis waited quietly. 

“I would never hurt him,” Zhenya said sharply. Even though he could immediately acknowledge that that pledge was fast spiraling out of his ability to control.

“Sure,” Denis said. “And you? What about you?”

“What _about_ me?” Zhenya was aware he was being a brat, but he was feeling guilty and heartsick and he was talking to his know-it-all of an older brother so he figured he was partially allowed. 

“What are you going to do when this nice orthodox boy you’ve managed to loop into your web—”

“I’m not a _spider_ , come on—” 

“—decides that he’s not happy with a heathen and wants to match with someone in his own community? What happens then? Are you ready for that?”

“It’s not that serious, I’ll be fine.” He decided not to mention that Sidney was actually already in the process of matching. And that Zhenya was pretty sure the process couldn't possibly go on for much longer. Someone would snatch Sidney up soon enough. They had to.

“You are such an idiot.” Denis sighed. “Such a young, dumb idiot. Why are you doing this to yourself?”

Denis sounded so worried, and Zhenya found himself blurting out, “Sidney doesn’t want to match with me.”

It hurt to say out loud, unexpectedly so. Sid had stopped talking to Zhenya about his match dates, which Zhenya supposed was a small mercy. He was trying to keep a level head on about all of this but he didn’t know what he would do if he had to sit and listen to Sidney describe another eligible young single clearly longing to match with someone like Sidney, not after they’d spent over an hour kissing until their mouths were red, which was what they did most nights they got together.

He decided to yank off the bandage. He was getting in too deep. He was losing sight of what this was.

He needed to reset the boundary lines.

On their next off day, the two of them holed up in Sidney’s room, Zhenya was peeling himself off of Sidney to cool down for the second time, after making out had escalated so quickly once again he couldn’t take it anymore. It was happening much faster lately, where just pressing against Sid for a few months, mouthing at his neck and behind his ear, was becoming too much for Zhenya to handle. 

And he refused to come in his pants, he just did. That was the limit. 

They were primly holding hands, Sidney holding tight even as they sat apart like he didn’t want to be totally separated, and Zhenya was glad for it. He stroked lightly at Sidney’s palm. He watched Sidney’s breath catch, and Zhenya’s skin started to heat again. It was like he had a fever. Fuck, this was out of control.

“When your next date?” Zhenya heard himself blurt out.

He’d envisioned something smoother, maybe less desperate-sounding, but it was out now, at least. He could roll with it.

Sidney twisted Zhenya’s hand in his lap so his palm was face-up, studying it avidly. He traced a line with the tip of his finger and Zhenya shivered. Sidney glanced up in surprise. “Is that nice?” He looked curious, like he always did when he got a reaction out of Sid.

“Everything you do _nice_ , come on, Sid,” Zhenya said, aggrieved, overheated. He ignored the look of sly pleasure on Sid’s face and pulled him more fully against his side. He was a menace. He gave him a light squeeze. “Next date. When next match?” 

Sidney went still, mostly noticeable because they were pressed so tightly together.

“Well, not for a little bit,” he said.

That was vague, Zhenya thought. “So not this week?” Come to think of it, Zhenya didn’t really know how Sid was finding the time to play nearly three games a week, and practice, and take part in his myriad media responsibilities, and come over to drive Zhenya crazy every free night. The schedule with match dates had been tight before but now it seemed practically impossible. 

At the same time, Zhenya was so grateful that Sidney was choosing to spend so much time with him that he was loathe to even bring it up, lest Sidney come to his senses and cut back on these illicit extracurricular sessions, to use the absolutely mortifying phrase Sergei had begun referring too whenever Zhenya tried to sneak out of the house.

“Why do you care?”

Zhenya looked pointedly at where his arm was draped over Sidney’s shoulder, possessively, almost. “Why you think?” Sid glanced up at him in surprise, and Zhenya explained, “You know, we don’t do this after, when you match, you know? So I just wonder.”

Confirming it out loud was unpleasant. Zhenya hated the sound of the admission, but he also knew he wouldn’t be able to stand the guilt if things got more complicated. He was having enough stomachaches over slowly siphoning away Sidney’s innocence one session of dry humping at a time; he definitely wasn’t going to make Sidney an adulterer too.

Something about what he’d said made Sidney slump a little. “Yeah,” he muttered. “I guess not.” He sat up and straightened his shirt where it was twisted weird around his waist from rubbing against Zhenya just a few moments ago. “You should probably get going soon.”

Zhenya raised his eyebrows. He’d only been over for an hour. They had at least another half hour before Sergei would start sending Zhenya increasingly judgmental text messages asking if he ever planned to return home again or if they should ship his things back to Russia without him.

But Sidney was already getting to his feet. He smiled, shrugging, but it looked off. “I told Nathalie I’d help the kids get some homework done.” At least that checked out. Sidney loved hanging out with the kids. He’d told Zhenya once he missed having a bunch of little cousins always running around, getting in the way, and Zhenya had lost about twenty minutes fantasizing about Sidney carrying a bunch of adorable Crosby toddlers in his thick, strong arms.

Now, Zhenya stood as well, slower. He felt like he’d made a misstep, but he wasn’t sure how.

“And I have to call my parents in a bit. I told them we’d talk." It sounded a little hollow, but he knew Sidney talked to his parents a lot. It checked out. 

Sidney let him press a kiss to his curls, fluffy as they dried from his post-practice shower, and walked him downstairs. They separated when they hit the landing, making a show of propriety as Sidney stepped into the hallway first. 

Mario was walking by, arms laden with a stack of kid-sized hockey gear. He stopped at the sight of Zhenya, smiling. “Hey! You staying for dinner? We’re having a roast chicken.”

It did sound good, even if he’d already promised to come home to Sergei’s. Ksenia was making pelmeni and although Zhenya would die before admitting it, it was better than his own mother’s. 

But before he could decline, Sidney cut in with, “No, he’s going home.” He nodded at Zhenya curtly, like business associates on a train and not two guys that had just had their tongues in each other’s mouths ten minutes earlier. “Later, Geno.” 

Sidney turned and headed into the kitchen, leaving Mario and Zhenya to watch him go, bemused. 

“He’s moody today,” Mario observed. He set the pile of sports equipment on the floor. “I’ll walk you out.”

Zhenya let him see him to the door, but before Zhenya could escape to brood on Sidney’s weird mood in peace, Mario stopped him.

“I’m glad you and Sidney have become such good friends,” he said.

Zhenya made a noncommittal sound. 

“I think it’s good for Sidney to spend time with you,” Mario said. “To see how other people live. Maybe help him make his own decisions.” 

“Sid make own decisions,” Zhenya said cautiously. If this insane relationship they had going was an indication of anything, it was that Sidney made his own choices. “Sid want to match. He match, so. Probably soon.”

“I know he thinks he does. He thinks he knows what he wants.” Mario leveled Zhenya with a look. “But I worry that he’s more worried about what his family wants.” Zhenya froze, caught out, but Mario kept on. “So it’s good for him to see what’s out there, I think. Get out from under his parents’ thumb.”

Zhenya wasn’t familiar with the idiom but something about it pissed him off. 

“Thumb?” he asked warily.

“It’s just a saying,” Mario explained vaguely, eyebrows drawn. “They just control a lot of his life, and it worries me.”

Mario made it sound like Sidney was just some idiot pawn being moved around by his evil family member. It sat wrong with Zhenya. It sounded too much like the same close-minded bullshit heathens always tossed around when they were inserting their opinions on orthodox ways they knew nothing about.

And he wasn’t thrilled about what Mario was implying. That he wanted Zhenya to, what, bait Sidney away from his family? Make him turn his back on them? 

It made Zhenya feel a little dirty, like Mario was pimping him out to win some kind of moral argument.

“Sidney not stupid,” he said.

Mario raised his eyebrows. “I know that. I never said he was.”

“His family not stupid.”

“Of course not.” Mario paused. “But they are pressuring him.” 

The person pressuring Sid most to match, Zhenya thought, was probably Sid, but he didn’t really want to argue about this, least of all with Mario. He attempted to deflect. “He choose. “ 

“You know it’s more complicated than that, with the orthodox.” 

Zhenya would never have thought Mario had the capacity to be kind of a shithead, but. He was really nailing it right now.

It made Zhenya jut his chin out. “My family orthodox.”

“They are?” Mario looked genuinely perplexed like he would never have guessed that Zhenya could be anything other than another rational nonbeliever.

“I grow up in faith. Not now, but. Was _my_ life.” His English was slipping. He was getting annoyed.

“I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

“Why sorry? Not for be sorry.” Zhenya just wanted to go back to Sergei’s and sulk in peace, but Mario wasn’t done, and he couldn’t just storm out on _Mario Lemieux_ , fuck's sake. 

“I didn’t mean—I just thought, since you’ve been spending so much time here. That you weren’t—I just assumed.”

It was the most unsettled Zhenya had ever seen Mario. 

Zhenya thought a lot of things about the orthodox life were ridiculous and he would happily complain to his mom and dad and Denis, but he wasn’t about to get into the complexities and peculiarities of a thousand-year-old faith with someone on the outside. 

“When Sid move in, what you tell his parents?” Zhenya asked suddenly. 

“What do you mean?” 

“They ask, ‘Sid safe here?’ and you say, ‘yes.' Right?”

He was sure that there had been a conversation at least, mostly focusing on Sid's reputation, the confines of his faith. He’d never met Sidney’s parents, but he would hazard a guess that they wouldn’t have let Sidney move in with a billet without ensuring that Mario would at least respect Sid’s beliefs. It was traditional.

Mario nodded, so Zhenya assumed it was close to what ha happened.

And sometime in the interim, Mario had apparently changed his mind. He’d decided he knew better than Sidney, or his parents. Like Sidney was his own kid and it was his right to have some kind of say on what he believed.

Zhenya felt offended, weirdly so especially considering his boner had just gone down a few minutes ago after groping Sidney’s back and arms and legs to his heart’s content. 

It was even weirder knowing he was being more or less encouraged to debauch Sidney, at the very least urge him to doubt the match process. “You supposed to protect. His...” Shit. What was the word in English, he couldn’t quite...fucking nouns... _dobrodetel_. “Virtue.”

He felt a surge of fierce protectiveness, for Sid, his parents, for everything that made him who he was.

Mario sighed heavily. “I’m trying to protect all of him. Not just his virtue. There’s more to him than that.”

Didn’t Zhenya fucking know it, even if Mario’s tone still grated.

“You not understand,” Zhenya said finally. “You not orthodox.”

He let his own sense of superiority bleed through until they were just staring hard at each other and it dawned on him he was staring down his veteran Stanley-Cup-winning captain who largely held Zhenya's professional future in his hand like a baby bird and decided maybe it wasn't overly wise to keep glaring at him like a belligerent jackass.

He shuffled into his shoes uncomfortably. “Well. Goodbye.” He left, ignoring Mario tiredly saying his name as he loped to the driveway and got into Sergei’s dumb SUV. He needed his own car, and soon. 

“Everything alright?” Sergei asked suspiciously when Zhenya threw himself down at the dining table. One of the girls immediately crawled into his lap and he automatically lifted an arm, letting her settle in.

Zhenya shrugged, still troubled by his talk with Mario, but more by the weird stiffness in Sidney's face as he turned away from Zhenya.

Sergei didn’t push. Instead, he let Zhenya mope in silence while he and Ksenia carried on a light meandering conversation about nothing and pestered the girls to clear their plate and generally left Zhenya alone. He also spooned three extra helpings of extra pelmeni onto Zhenya’s plate, and he may not have held the record for most points scored in a season, but Zhenya would pick him over Mario Lemieux any day.

 

*

 

Sidney rarely went out with the unmarried guys (and Duper) after games if he could help it. He especially didn’t go out when he was in a lingering foul mood and felt like snapping at everyone whenever they looked at him funny, even after a strong win against the Redwings that had left everyone in an ebullient mood.

But his dad had long ago given him a lecture about balancing team bonding, and how it was important to make sacrifices if it meant being a leader, but also not to let his morals slip just because he was entering a den of iniquity, like a bar. 

He’d actually said that. Sid had had to look it up, and now he couldn’t help but repeat the phrase "den of inquity" silently as he trooped after Flower into some sports bar where they made him wear an underage bracelet even though everyone, even the bouncer, knew who Sidney was and that he was orthodox and would not be trying to sneak a drink. He'd just be watching the guys get drunk while he felt cranky and did his best not to stare at Geno.

Flower held an arm out, letting him head in front to slide into the booth. “First choice for the first star tonight.” 

Residually annoyed, Sidney looked to see if Flower was making fun of him but Flower was just smiling, shoulders loose. He’d had a shut out himself. He deserved to celebrate, and not have Sidney scowl at him all night.

“You need to chill, my friend,” Flower said. “So tense. Like a little angry backpack.” He giggled like he was hilarious. 

“Shut up, I’m fine.” Sidney crossed his arms. “I’m not tense.” 

Tanger dropped down beside him then, thunking a glass of water in front of Sidney, a beer in his own hand. “You know what helps with tension?” 

Sidney didn’t ask. Across the bar, Geno was talking to the bartender, gesturing for something behind the bar. At his elbow, a girl was watching him, blatantly scoping out his ass beneath his terrible distressed jeans. 

Sid couldn't blame the girl. Geno did look good tonight. He'd looked even better when he’d wristed one in at the end of the second, making it look easy and turning Sidney’s mouth dry as he watched.

He took a gulp of his water. He needed to stop thinking about this, if he wanted to gain any perspective.

But Tanger still wanted to talk about tension relief. “Do you?” he asked, waggling his eyebrows at Sidney. “Do you know?”

Sidney knew. He wasn’t going to say it out loud though. Of the lesser-known but still top-five worst things about being one of the only orthodox players in the league, constantly surrounded by nonbelievers, was everyone else’s fixation with Sidney’s junk.

Max took that opportunity to chime in, already looking a little fuzzy from downing his first beer in under a minute. “I have a question about that.”

Sidney sighed. He knew where this was going.

Or more specifically, what he was doing with it.

“So do you like,” Max asked, head cocked. He gestured at his own crotch where it was hidden beneath the table. “Ever just want to, you know.” He pursed his lips, as though casting around for the appropriate terminology, but then gave up and went with the classic. “Jerk it out? Like, how do you _not_?” He made the tugging gesture with his hand, and Sidney felt himself go stiff. 

Most of the time he was good at tuning this stuff out in the room—he’d been playing hockey for fifteen years at this point, after all. Sometimes it was tougher. Every once in while he’d be struck anew, how easily most of these guys talked about this stuff, just out in the open, to anyone, even unmarried people.

He’d been getting hot and heavy with Geno for almost two months now and even he thought it was obscene.

He looked up at Geno at that, and saw he was watching Sidney intently. Too intently. It just reminded Sid that he hadn’t been kissed in nearly four days. He wondered if Geno had been counting, or if he’d started kissing someone else. 

Why wouldn't he, Sidney reminded himself. Geno obviously thought what they were doing was just a way to pass the time, Sidney thought meanly. Then he looked at Geno again and felt bad. It wasn’t like Sidney hadn’t known this was the way it would have to be going in. 

He cleared his throat, doing his best to both refocus on and ignore Max. “Um. I mean. I’d rather not, you know. Talk about it.”

The other guys were hanging on his every word and a few decided to weigh in, talking over him. 

“Well of course he does, he’s still _human_ —”

“No way, they save that for marriage, come on—” 

“I don’t think they could possibly—”

“He’s a red-blooded, 20-year-old athlete, of course he has _needs_ —”

“That’s enough wang talk for one night, my friend,” Duper said into the din, reaching far over to slap Max on the shoulder, friendly but firm. “Let’s move on to other topics.” He didn’t look directly at Sidney as he steered Max into talking about drills for the day, but the message was clear. 

Sidney was torn; on the one hand, he could appreciate a teammate setting the tone with the younger guys. It hadn’t been like that in Juniors by any stretch, and sometimes he’d found himself longing for an adult to get the other guys to lay off. Let Sid be. 

On the other hand, he didn’t need a minder. He was an adult now. He could handle himself.

He checked his watch surreptitiously and made plans to slip out in twenty minutes.

“You’re not slick,” Duper said from down the table. Sidney flinched. Busted. “You’re off the clock, bud. Relax.”

Why was everyone so obsessed with Sidney’s tension level today. “I’m fine. Jeez, drink your beer.” 

Duper raised his glass in cheers and took a long drink, and then got caught up arguing with Gonch about something Sidney couldn’t quite hear.

When Flower got up to go to the bar, Geno slid in on Sid’s other side and nudged him gently with a shoulder. “You good?” 

“If someone asks me that again I’m leaving.” He focused on sitting up straight, not listing into Geno like he wanted. It had been _days_ since they touched. It was a struggle. He smelled a little like beer and was loose-limbed like it was hitting him but still sharp-eyed and watching Sidney.

“But you _not_ good!” Geno argued. "So I just ask. Not a crime."

“Maybe that’s my business,” Sidney sniped back.

“Could be my business,” Geno said easily. At first, Sidney thought he was being suggestive, but when he looked, Geno’s brow was furrowed. 

“It’s nothing important.” It wasn’t really. Just Sidney coming to terms with what he wanted to happen, and what was actually going to happen, and how they weren’t going to overlap. 

A handful of guys were mobilizing to head closer to the bar to try and bother some girls, while the rest were taken up with their own conversations. Still, Geno looked around and lowered his mouth closer to Sidney, voice pitched low. “Avoid me?” 

Sidney stared at his water. “I’m not avoiding you.” 

Geno hummed, unconvinced. “I do something? You mad?”

Under the table, Sidney felt Geno lay a careful hand on his knee. He stiffened, fighting the urge to glance around and see if any of the guys had seen. Of course they hadn't, and he was being more conspicuous by craning his neck around, but he couldn't help it. 

"So tense," Geno murmured, chuckling when Sidney whipped around to glare at him. "Sorry, sorry. True, though."

"I can't be out of sorts? Jeez, you guys are worse than my actual mom." He felt Geno's thumb rubbing lazily against his kneecap and determinedly did not react.

"Sidney everyone's favorite, all want to be big brother." Geno's long fingers touched the underside of Sidney's knee, making him twitch.

"Tickles," Sidney whispered, without moving his leg away. He could feel his cheeks getting red. They shouldn't be doing this here. Or anywhere, really.

"Sh, so much whine." Before Sidney could snap anything back, Geno shifted his grip, running his hand up so his hand was high on Sidney's thigh. Sidney nearly swallowed his tongue. Geno's fingertips were right at the edge of Sidney's gym shorts. Another half and inch and they'd be underneath. He'd be able to touch the thin skin of Sidney's inner thighs, maybe. And no one else at the table would know.

Well, Flower kept eyeing them. He probably had an inkling, with that strange goalie premonition. But no one else.

"Come on, we leave," Geno said finally. He squeezed Sidney's knee. It would be so easy to get up and say he was catching a cab, and then go back to Mario's and hide away upstairs with Geno, and let Geno hold him and touch him and pretend like everything was fine.

_We can't do this after you match._

He resented the echo of Geno's words as soon as they bubbled up. Geno wasn't wrong, they wouldn't be able to even spend much time together after Sid matched, and especially not the way they'd been hanging out recently. With lots of tongue, for one.

He was suddenly and unbearably antsy. 

He scooted out of the bench, Geno's hand dropping from his knee as he watched Sid scrambled away. "Nah, think I'm just going to head home," he hedged.

It was perfectly innocent, and a few guys nearby waved. Geno was looking at him like Sid had smacked him right in the face.

He was shaking his head, perplexed. Finally, he huffed. "Fine! Do that. Go home. Sid boring."

Geno sounded fine, brusque and teasing, but the look he gave Sid before he turned away was enough to send Sid turning on his heel and hurrying away. 

He didn't even wait until he got home to make the call. He was in the cab, the driver politely pretending not to recognize him when Sidney pulled out his phone and dialed. Luckily he didn't have long to wait. 

“Hey, Mom," he said when the call connected. His voice was shaking a little, he noticed in a distant way. 

“Sidney?” his mom asked, alarm in every syllable. He must sound pretty off. Also, it was kind of late. Sidney didn’t know why he just didn’t wait until morning. “What is it, are you alright?” 

“Is Lyanne there?”

“I’m here, my love,” Lyanne chimed in, voice slightly tinny. His mom must have put the phone on speaker. Sidney imagined them both in front of the TV, falling asleep in front of a movie. “I’m here. What is it?”

“Nothing, I’m fine.” He inhaled deeply, held it. Did his best to let it out smooth and steady. “I’m ready for another match date.”

  

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks everyone for being patient. still getting the hang of this pairing so it took me a bit longer. hope to get next chapter up by Monday/Tuesday! 
> 
> you dudes are good and I like you all! also this sucker's gonna earn it's rating soon enough, I promise.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u dudes for your patience

*

 

Zhenya knew something had changed. He wasn’t stupid, regardless of how he often sounded (and felt) giving interviews in English and the earnest fool persona he'd begun systematically developing in America in order to slough off media responsibilities onto Sidney. 

It was hard to pinpoint the shift, was all. One minute he’d been happily ensconced in some kind of whirlwind affair with the heir apparent to the Penguins throne, a bleary haze of lips and tongue and trying to fight his natural instinct to grope Sidney’s ass as much as possible, and the next—he was being shut out.

Until suddenly Zhenya couldn’t linger near Sidney’s stall without Sid getting all huffy and then falling stonily silent, carefully ignoring Zhenya like he’d never spent an afternoon letting Zhenya kiss and suck all up his throat until Sidney was panting and writhing under him. 

Which was an unproductive line of thought to have in the middle of the room while Therrien and a few of the assistant coaches were trying to lay out a plan of attack for Boston the next night and Zhenya had to keep reminding himself not to keep looking over at Sidney like an idiot.

As usual, Therrien could sense Zhenya’s lack of focus like some kind of snake scenting the air and zeroed in. “Geno, you got that? You good with the shift change?” 

“Yep,” Zhenya said. He nodded a few times. He had no idea what Therrien had been talking about. The key was to bluster through. “Yep, very good.”

Therrien looked less than impressed. “Glad to hear it. Maybe try to look halfway interested while we’re talking, huh?” 

Zhenya was still nodding. He needed to stop nodding. “Yes, okay. Good.” A few of the guys were snickering. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sidney turn to look at him, lips pursed, like he was puzzled. 

With a final glare that succeeded in pulling Zhenya’s focus back to the board review, Therrien moved on. Beside him, Sergei poked him in the knee. 

“All okay, Zhenya?” 

Zhenya hushed hum. “Quiet. Pay attention to coach.” He made a show of leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, intent.

Sergei exhaled. “Such a brat,” he muttered under his breath, but Zhenya ignored him.

Therrien eventually wound down and went to consult with Mario and a few other staff, while the rest of the guys kind of milled around and pulling off the rest of their gear, everyone a little sluggish from practice. 

Across the room, Flower had moved to sit by Sidney, who looked warily pleased by the attention. Zhenya watched as Flower said something to Sid, eyebrows up. Sid paused and then sputtered out one of his weird hooting laughs that he still got a decent amount of shit for. 

He lined his skates up neatly in his locker and took out his pile of clean clothes from his bag. He was still giggling at whatever stupid joke Flower had made as he sorted through the pile, smoothing out a long-sleeved button up and laying it carefully on top. 

Something about it caught Zhenya’s eye, from where he was already furtively watching the whole exchange as he pulled off his practice jersey. He froze, jersey half over his head, a thought striking him.

He knew that shirt. That was a match date shirt. He was only now realizing he hadn’t seen much of it in the last few weeks.

“Sid, you got match?” he blurted out before he realized the words were even on the horizon.

Of course he chose the one moment where there was a lull in general boisterousness to speak, and his words carried clear as a bell across the room.

Like a many-headed monster, most of the guys who hadn’t already hit the showers turned their heads to Sid in unsettling unison.

The smile slid quickly off Sid’s face, all ease lost under the sudden scrutiny. Zhenya felt like a dickhead. He hated seeing Sid so uncomfortable.

He winced in apology but Sid wasn't really looking at him, turned only slightly from Flower. “Don’t worry about it,” he said coolly.

It was the least friendly Zhenya could ever remember him being, and it didn't feel great, but he was also distracted doing some mental math. He tried to remember how long it had been since he’d seen Sidney go on a match date. Since Sidney had even talked about going on one. He was having a hard time coming up with a definite number.

“No match yet, Sid?” Tanger called out. It was all easy, good-natured, and Sidney was mostly rolling his eyes but Zhenya felt uneasy. Preemptively defensive. “Don’t worry, you’ll snag someone soon enough.”

Max nudged Tanger. “I mean, if you run out of human candidates, I think there’s probably some really nice, respectful, orthodox mooses in Canada who would probably take you?” It was pretty tame, considering some of the stuff the guys usually said, and Sidney didn't seem too bothered. Zhenya was just on edge.

Colby, who almost never joined in on any of the general chirping about Sid and matches, leaned forward at that. “Is it mooses, or just moose? Meese?” 

Max looked mystified, mouthing ‘moose’ to himself. “I want to say mooses, but then...that doesn't sound right.” 

It devolved into nonsense at that, and Zhenya exhaled, glad it hadn’t gotten too far into Sidney chirping, benign or no. 

Quietly, Flower asked Sid, “You still doing those?”, once the focus has sufficiently shifted to moose and their plural tense. He sounded interested, but not as judgmental as Zhenya remembered him sometimes seeming when Sidney and his dates came up in the room. 

“Yeah, I am,” Sidney said, much warmer to Flower than he was to Zhenya. Fuck, what the hell had Zhenya done? Why was he suddenly so friendly with _Flower_? “I was going to ease off until after the regular season ended, but then I figured, what’s the point, you know?”

All the air felt like it whooshed out of Zhenya all at once.

Flower mulled that over for a moment. “No rush though, right?”

Sidney shrugged. He was still not looking at Zhenya, so pointed that Zhenya thought it must be obvious to everyone else, but then probably no one was paying as much extreme attention to every detail about Sidney’s face like Zhenya was right now. 

“No real reason to wait though, right?” Sidney stood, the movement perfectly smooth and unhurried and yet still enough to make Zhenya’s chest feel oddly achy. “Once I finally match, then I don’t have to worry about it anymore. I can just focus on my play.”

Flower tilted his head to the side. He looked thoughtful. He tilted it back. “That seems like a weird reason to decide to marry someone for the rest of your life.”

Zhenya expected Sidney to clam up at that, or maybe snap a little, but Sidney did neither. He just looked down at his feet, then back up, some kind of stoic Canadian expression in his eyes Zhenya couldn’t quit parse. “Yeah, well. It’s my life.” 

Sidney started for the door, no doubt to change in peace. The only sign of tension was the way his shoulders were tight and hunched slightly closer to his ears than usual.

Zhenya watched him go, jersey still mostly tangled around his neck and shoulders, and was caught up enough that he jerked when Duper sat down beside him.

“Hey there, big guy.” He clapped a big hand on Zhenya’s shoulder. “How you doing?”

Zhenya grumbled noncommittally. He finally shook off his jersey and started shimmying out of his leggings and into shorts, a little wary of the look on Duper’s face. It was too Dadlike for Zhenya’s peace of mind. 

Duper rubbed absently at a knee, finally opening with, “I didn’t know he was still going on those things, either. He’s so private, he never tells me anything.” He’d been telling Zhenya lots, Zhenya had to stop himself from boasting, backwards as it was. He’d been telling Zhenya a lot, that was, until he wasn’t and he was just letting Zhenya _do_ lots, and now he'd stopped both and Zhenya had no real idea why. 

“I know you guys have gotten close, but don’t take it too personally. I mean, he says it’s what he wants, so I guess he’s the judge. Even if it’s weird.” 

“Is not weird,” Zhenya said gruffly, even though he did think match dates were weird, he’d long thought that, he didn’t know why he was so intent on defending a religion he’d more or less rejected over a decade ago. 

“Oh, I forgot. Your family used to—I’m not trying to be an asshole about it. Just saying. It’s different, but that’s Sid.”

Duper was just trying to be nice, maybe a little condescending but it was harmless, really. Something about it still pissed Zhenya off.

“I not care. _Don’t_.” The English language could go straight to fucking hell as far as he was concerned. “It’s fine. Happy for him, you know?” He climbed angrily to his feet, belying his words.

Duper was slightly wide-eyed, watching him like Zhenya was a crazy person, which, that was actually fair.

He was stomping after Sidney between one thought and the next, leaving Duper behind without saying goodbye. They needed to talk this out.

He’d never purposefully sought him out in his secret changing room but Zhenya figured it had to be close by. Maybe one of those utility closets around by the back trainer’s room?

He poked his head in a few doors, got weird looks from a few trainers, including one who was giving a rubdown to Sheary. Sheary lifted his head to give a tired glare. “You mind, man?”

“Look for bathroom,” Zhenya mumbled before hurrying out. 

He shouldered in through another door that didn’t look promising, tucked away into the far end of the hallway, nondescript. It wasn’t locked but it stuck a little so Zhenya had to really push, and then—

He stumbled in on Sid standing in the middle of the tiny room in nothing but a pair of tight black briefs.

They stared at each other in shock, Zhenya sure his mouth was doing something stupid, lolling open like a dog probably. Sidney pulled himself together first. 

“What in the hell— _turn around_!” he hissed, covering his body ineffectually with a t-shirt clutched in his hand.

Zhenya spun obediently around, eyes wide.

It wasn’t like so much was left to the imagination when Sidney was just in his under armor, or when he was lifting in long sleeves or shorts with leggings underneath, that Zhenya couldn't extrapolate his naked shape. He was aware Sid was thick and well built with a center of gravity like a Soviet era refrigerator. Hell, he’d touched plenty of Sidney through thin t-shirts and basketball shorts, slid his fingertips underneath to scratch lightly at his back or his hip. 

It was still nothing compared with seeing the expanse of Sidney’s wide, pale chest with only the fluorescent lighting reflecting off it. His thick thighs just right there, staring back at Zhenya cheerfully. 

Still, this was an invasion. “Sorry, Sid,” he muttered. “Not mean to.”

“How is that possible?” There was the shuffled of Sidney pulling on clothes. “You just barged in here without knocking and you _didn’t_ mean to catch me naked?”

“Not all naked,” Zhenya couldn’t help but correct. 

Sidney made an inarticulate groan of fury. “This is just like Juniors,” he muttered, which, Zhenya didn’t like the sound of that, but Sidney was giving the all clear and Zhenya would have to put a pause on vows to punish teenage Canadians for bullying Sidney until a later date. “Okay, I’m decent. Turn around.” 

Zhenya turned, and Sidney was indeed clothed, long-sleeve shirt yanked down over his hands and wrists as he glared balefully at Zhenya.

“Well?” he prompted, lip curled. “What did you want?” 

Zhenya was kind of at a loss. He wasn’t sure. He wanted Sidney to stop ignoring him. He wanted to go back to the thoughtless enjoyment of messing around in Mario Lemieux’s guest room and watching hockey and making Sidney wrinkle his nose and laugh.

He cast his mind back to a few weeks before, after a brutal knockout in fucking Montreal, Zhenya nursing an twisted ankle, Sidney with bruise along the side of his face from a brutal check by Markov that had left the whole team rowdy and looking to fight, when they’d landed in Pittsburgh and the first thing Zhenya had done was turn to Sid.

“Watch baby show?” It was shorthand for the horrible toddler beauty pageant program they’d started watching on accident and Zhenya was now low-key passionate about.

“One episode,” Sidney had said grudgingly. He was less enamored of the show but tolerant of Zhenya’s fascination.

They drove home with Mario, who was still on day-to-day and exhausted from the travel and had given them nothing but a weary smile as they trooped upstairs. 

Sidney had made mac and cheese and they’d watched two and a half episodes of the dumb show until Zhenya had ended up drowsing against Sidney for a while, the throbbing in his ankle dulling to a manageable ache.

He remembered blinking awake, disoriented for a moment. He shifted and saw Sidney looking down at him, frowning, like he was studying Zhenya for some test he needed to pass.

“Creepy to stare,” Zhenya said, voice hoarse. 

“Your face is creepy,” Sidney chirped, weak, as per usual. But he also grinned, and then Zhenya grinned back, and when he’d called a cab that night, he’d smiled most of the way back to Sergei’s, and he couldn’t remember feeling that good after a loss before. 

He didn’t even think they’d kissed that night. 

Now, looking at Sidney, who was watching him tensely like he expected Zhenya to—to, he wasn’t sure, _jump_ Sidney, or yell at him or say something mean—it was a lot to take in.

Any head of steam he’d built up stalking over from the main locker room to barge in on Sidney had dissipated. Zhenya scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Just want to see—you okay?” His throat was dry, his accent even stronger than usual.

Sidney leaned against the bare wall, shoulders hunched in. “Why does everyone keep asking me that? It’s not like you’re going to believe me if I say I’m fine.”

“Don’t look fine,” Zhenya countered. “Don’t act fine.” 

“Well, I’m allowed, don’t you think?” Sidney snapped. 

“Sidney—” Zhenya stopped himself, realizing he was stepping closer, his stupid instinct to crowd and pull Sidney in, put his hands on him. Judging by Sidney’s expression, that wasn’t something he was allowed to do anymore. Technically never, but Sidney didn’t seem intent on waiving those rules again anytime soon. “Sid, what I do? Just _tell_ me, and I can...I can stop. Never do again.” He knew he was pleading. He couldn’t help it. 

Sidney shrugged, bewildered. “Why are you acting like we broke up? We didn’t. There was nothing to break.”

The syntax was a little hard to deconstruct, but the bleak light in Sidney’s eyes was not. Zhenya worked to keep his face blank. It sure felt like a fucking break up to him.

“Maybe not dating, not like match,” Zhenya allowed cautiously. But that hadn’t made it nothing, at least not to Zhenya, he wanted to add. It seemed he was only just realizing now how very serious it had been to him, now that it was apparently gone. Perfect timing, as always.

Sidney made an impatient sound. “Exactly. This was just fun. You had fun, right?” The way he said it sounded ugly.

“Sid. What? What.” Zhenya was pretty sure Sidney had had fun too. Maybe he’d been wrong. Had Zhenya made him do something he hadn’t wanted? Did Zhenya just push him into all of it, and Sidney had gone along, reluctant but resigned?

Sidney had his arms crossed over his chest. It made him look kind of like a little kid throwing a tantrum if that little kid was also in his twenties and built and so handsome it was kind of hard for Zhenya to look at head on.

“You made it pretty clear what you wanted out of this,” Sidney said.

“What? What you talking—not making _sense_.” Because he wasn’t, Zhenya had always been more than careful to never have expectations, to never label anything they were doing so he wouldn’t do something stupid and hope that maybe it might be...whatever. It didn’t matter because Zhenya had _never done that_.

Sidney’s head snapped up, eyes hard. “You knew I wanted to match. You knew from the _beginning_. Did you think I was just going to change my mind?” 

“No, I didn’t think,” Zhenya stuttered.

“Did you think I was just going to turn my back on my family, my community, just to keep messing around with you?” Sidney wasn’t raising his voice. He was doing his calm alternate captain voice, and the calmer he spoke the worse it all sounded.

Zhenya had a lingering tenderness on his left side, ribs still sore from being boarded a few nights ago. His wrist was swollen and his shins were aching and he was exhausted from the season, worn down. All of that pain fell away as he let Sidney’s words smack him around. Sink into his skin. 

“Want you to have what you want, Sid. Want that always.”

“This is what I want. I want to find a match, an orthodox match. I don’t want to waste time anymore.” Zhenya heard himself suck in a breath, and even Sidney winced. “Sorry. I didn't mean to say it like that. It's just—it doesn’t make any sense to keep doing this.” He gestured at Zhenya for 'this.'

He wasn’t wrong, Zhenya knew. He got that. He wasn’t sure why it had taken Sidney so long to come to his senses, really.

All at once Zhenya’s top priority coalesced into leaving this room as soon as possible and get out of the Igloo before the burning in his nose evolved into something more visible and humiliating.

He nodded roughly. “Okay, Sid. Okay.”

At least Sid looked chagrinned, although that meant Zhenya probably looked as crushed as he felt and Sidney was most likely just reacting to that, which wasn't ideal. “Geno, I’m sorry.”

“Not you fault. My fault.” He'd been the more experienced one, after all.

Sid looked frustrated. “How is it your fault? I’m the one who, who was—all over you.” His gaze slipped to the side. He was blushing, Zhenya noted dully. “I couldn’t control myself.”

Zhenya huffed out a truly pathetic sound that was meant to be a laugh. “Yes, I know. Very handsome. No resist.” God, he needed to get out of here. “Okay. See tomorrow.” 

“Optional skate tomorrow,” Sidney corrected, Zhenya assumed compulsively, because he made a face at himself even as Zhenya rolled his eyes.

“Fine, Sid. See you when I see you.” He turned to go, feeling out of control. 

“Geno, I’m sorry,” Sidney called out again. 

Zhenya stopped in the doorway. He didn’t turn. He didn’t think he could really look at Sid again without being embarrassing. The only he could think to say was, “Wish you luck. Find match.” He thanked the gods he didn’t believe in anymore, especially not now, that at least he sounded like he meant it.

“Thanks,” Sid said softly from behind him.

Zhenya left. Sidney didn’t follow him.

 

*

 

So Sidney started going on match dates again. 

He was doing his best to keep his head right about it. He rated his success in that effort as a medium, if he was being generous.

“The trick,” his dad insisted, stern but earnest, during Sidney’s last call home to work out the logistics, “is to give it your good faith effort. The rest will come together.” 

It made sense in theory—try hard, put your nose down, give it your all, make your own luck—and it wasn’t like he didn’t have experience. Most of his career could be summed up as Putting In The Extra Effort. 

But in this context, he was hitting a wall. It was possibly the first time he ever really doubted his ability to push through with a sheer force of will.

He was also disgruntled to discover that the matches seemed to have only gotten less appealing in his time away from the process. And now he had no outlet for any of it, no one to call and complain about

After a truly heinous coffee date with a plastic surgeon named Bianca, he’d gone to check the time on his phone and found himself dialing Geno on muscle memory. He reared back in horror before he hit send, staring at his hand like it had been transplanted with a murderer’s.

He started wearing a watch after that. He went out with an aspiring actor named Brendan who was honestly so boring Sidney started nodding at the table.

He didn't even reach for his phone on his way home, and it felt like a victory.

The match dates took a lot more energy now, energy he didn't really have with the season at the point that it was. He’d never been excellent at small talk, but now he felt like he was legitimately having the same conversation over and over again two times a week. Yes, he traveled a lot to work. Yes, it was sometimes challenging to work with so many nonbelievers. No, he wasn't planning on retiring any time soon.

He went out with three dentists in a row and had to ask his mom and Lyanne if he was being punished.

“Sidney,” his mom said, in that gentle I’m-trying-not-to-strangle-my-young voice moms seemed to use a lot. “You said you were ready to really give this your all.”

“And I didn’t want to bring it up,” Lyanne added above his attempts to defend himself, “but you are getting a bit of a reputation."

He was surprised how much more it stung to hear than he expected. He knew what she was saying. A reputation as a difficult match, she meant.

From the other end of the line, he could hear his mom make a light scolding noise, and Lyanne hastened to add, “It already wasn’t easy, finding matches from thousands of miles away. Now it’s a little more complicated. It’s fine. Don’t worry.” 

His schedule adjustment hadn’t gone unnoticed by Mario.

“Sid, I’m retiring,” he said one evening as Sidney was helping him take the coverings off the patio furniture on the back porch for the summer. 

Sidney did his best to look surprised. He’d been IR unspecified for weeks but even with his own dramatic nonsense going on, Sidney had noticed the visits to the doctor, and the murmured conversations between Mario and Nathalie they didn’t want the kids to overhear.

Mario straightened. “Tell me I don't need to worry about you.”

“You don’t have to,” Sidney said, wishing fervently that that were true.

Mario pushed on, like he was trying to hit his main bulleted arguments, and it felt rude to interrupt. “You’re ending the regular season as a leader. You’ve become someone on the team players can depend on, but from my side, it looks like you’re having trouble prioritizing.”

“I’m sorry, Mario.” Sid didn’t know what else to say.

“Don’t be sorry. Just—promise me you’re thinking of yourself. Of your future.”

It was literally all Sidney felt like he’d been thinking about. He nodded. “I am, Mario.” 

“Haven’t seen Geno around much lately.” 

Sidney started folding up the chair covers into a messy pile. “Nope.”

“You two get into a fight or something?”

Sidney thought of facing off against one another in that tiny little room, feeling hopeless and wistful all at the same time, letting his mouth run away with him in his restlessness and how Geno seemed to droop at his words.

“Not really.” He took the last of the seat covers from Mario’s grip and finished building his untidy tower. “Just, I need to focus.

“I don’t understand why you can’t just wait until summer when you go home to look for a match.”

It was finally getting warm in Pittsburgh. The sun cut through the chill in the air, warming Sidney’s skin. But even as he looked out over the yard, he wished he was back inside, away from this conversation.

“It’s not...it's more complicated than that."

“So explain it to me.” Mario sounded frustrated. “Explain to me why you’re running yourself ragged, when by June at the latest, you’ll be back home, with all the time in the world for matchmaking.”

It was so much more than that, he wanted to yell. It was Sidney proving to his family that he was trying; it was proving to his community and the matchmaker that he wasn’t a difficult match, that he was committed to the process. Sidney had never heard of someone being given several weeks off in the middle of matchmaking like his parents had granted him earlier that month, and now he needed to show his gratitude.

He got the feeling none of that was what Mario wanted to hear, really. 

He could almost see the divide stretched out between them, Mario well-intentioned but clueless in his own way, and Sidney completely without the tools to explain the layers of expectation and responsibility that were woven even deeper and more inextricably throughout his life than even hockey would ever be. 

He felt lonely, which was happening more and more.

Sharply, Mario added, “If the organization offers you the C for next year, I want you to take it.”

Sidney did his best not to visibly balk at that. “I don’t think I’m...I’m not sure.” 

“There are more important things than pleasing your family,” Mario said. “This is your career. This is stepping up in the organization. This is your future.”

The guys in the room had slowly accepted the peculiarities of Sidney’s needs—the rules surrounding modesty and chastity had taken a while to sink in, but Duper and Tanger had helped to set the tone. Colby left him be, and even Flower had done his part to make Sidney’s rules just part of his general superstitions about games.

And then there was Geno. Geno had stepped in like he’d always been a Pen, and he crashed through the start of the season on a point-scoring tear, and not only that, but he was orthodox, or used to be. The closest thing to another orthodox player Sidney had ever been on a team with. And people _liked_ Geno, he set them at ease, and when he’d begun sticking to Sidney’s side, it had been like the whole room shifted. Like they could trust Sidney, more than they had before.

That was gone now, though. Who knew if the other guys would feel comfortable being led by someone they just couldn’t understand.

“I don’t know if that’s what’s best for the team,” he said carefully. He didn’t want to be a distraction. He didn’t want the guys to think he’d been selected to prove some kind of point. 

Mario’s face hardened slightly, on him enough to qualify as a scowl. It made Sidney tense. “You think you’re an adult? You think you’re ready to match, to marry and start your adult life? That’s what’s so important to the orthodox, right? Being grown?”

“It’s not just that,” Sidney tried to clarify, but Mario wasn’t hearing it.

“Most parts of being an adult aren’t some rite of passage, Sidney. There’s no matchmaker to tell you it’s time to step up. You need to make those choices for yourself.” 

They stared at each other for a long moment. Sidney was worried Mario was going to keep pushing, but to his relief, Mario sighed and turned to go inside. “Just, think about what I said, okay?” he asked tiredly, over his shoulder.

Sidney didn’t know how he couldn’t. “I will.”

He knew if management offered it, he’d take the C. He didn’t have it in him to disobey a direct order from a leader, even if it wasn’t coming from the community.

Mario may have had a misguided view of Sidney’s faith, but Sidney couldn’t really shake his words as he set out for the next day’s match. It was a late lunch after morning skate, so Sidney was already hoping it would be over quickly so he could go home and possibly nap in front of the TV. It was quite a life he'd made for himself, he reflected grimly.

He felt more tangled than ever before about what stepping up looked like in the rest of his life, though.

He tried to think of what he knew to be true. He wanted to match. He wanted the matchmaking process to be over. He wanted to go back in time and fix the way things had ended with Geno. He wanted his parents to be proud of him. 

None of that really set him up with a game-winning mindset as he walked into the café, and spotted his match date right away where she sat tucked in the corner, arms and legs modestly covered by a blouse and long skirt, dark hair neatly combed over one shoulder.

She smiled brightly and waved as he came over. Sidney tried not to look like he’d just been double-shifted. This wasn’t the match date’s fault.

“Hi,” he said, pasting a smile on as he sat down, “I’m Sidney.”

Barbara was actually really nice, was the worst part. Possibly the best match date Sidney had had so far. 

She was also kind of goofy and irreverent but in a way that didn’t put Sidney too on edge. It was nice. Kind of like being with Geno.

He put that thought immediately out of his head.

“These things are always so weird,” she said cheerfully as she set aside the menu once the waiter had taken their orders. “Like, ‘hello stranger, I’m literally here to see if we’re compatible to be married, low stakes, don’t worry about it.’”

Sidney felt himself nodding eagerly despite himself. “I know, right? It’s weird.” 

“Maybe it’s on purpose. Maybe the gods want us to build character. Toughen up.” 

When Sidney peered at her, he saw her eyes were dancing, and he couldn’t help smiling back.

They chatted through the basics. Barbara was finishing up her doctorate at Pitt, so she was also one of only a few other orthodox Sidney had met who were living away from their community for the foreseeable future. It took some of the pressure off of explaining his own career. Barbara talked about her family and community in northern Nova Scotia with genuine affection. But, she also admitted, “Sometimes it’s nice to have the space.”

“I know what you mean,” he said, and Barbara rewarded him with a smile.

She also had been on a lot of match dates (it was the first thing Lyanne had told him when describing her—“Maybe you two can talk about what it’s like to give your poor loving families stress ulcers from your stubbornness!”), and wasn’t embarrassed to talk about it.

“I went out with a guy a few nights ago, he kept dipping his head down, like he was trying to look up my nose. It was the weirdest thing.” 

“Really? Why up your nose?”  
  
“I finally asked him after like, thirty minutes of him ducking his head, and he said it was because his mom told him he shouldn’t trust a hairy woman, and even though I didn’t have a lot of hair on my arms or anything he just wanted to be sure.”

Sidney’s mouth dropped open a little. “That’s pretty...wow.”

Barbara smiled, throwing her head back to cackle lightly. It was surprisingly nice, as far as cackles went. “That’s not even the worst! Another guy, he kept counting how many times I chewed my food. And then he averaged it out and asked me if I’d ever thought about being a more efficient eater.”

She smiled when Sidney laughed, ever cheerful. She didn’t seem too bothered about the chew-counter, or the nose hair guy. She was more resilient than Sidney, probably.

“I bet you have weirder stories than me, though. I mean, you’re kind of a big deal, right? My brothers really follow your career, my littlest brother, Kevin? He wants to the second orthodox player in the league, after you.” 

“I’m not the only one.” 

“The only observant one, though, right?”

It was a distinction most people didn’t really understand, but of course Barbara did. “Yeah, I am.”

“That must be tough. With the team, but especially on this math dates. You probably make a lot of people nervous.” Barbara grinned. “You know, you’re actually not my first famous orthodox match ate.”

That caught Sidney's attention. “Who else?” 

he lowered her voice and leaned in, as though revealing a terrible secret. “Tom Brady. And don’t tell anyone I said this, but he’s really weird.”

“I know!” Sidney blurted out. It felt disloyal to talk about another orthodox out in public like this, but Sidney knew each of the pitifully small pool of professional athletes who were also in the faith and it was pretty much widely accepted that something was up with Brady. Still, Sidney ducked his head before he agreed, “He really  _is_.”

Barbara was delighted. “Right? He so is! My aunt set it up when I was finishing undergrad. He does that weird grin thing? Like his face is stuck?”

Sidney was covering his face with both hands, shoulders shaking. He’d met Brady at a fundraiser right before the draft. Barbara was right; it was unsettling.

“I met him at a fundraiser last year,” Sidney admitted. “I couldn’t stop staring at his teeth.” 

“They’re always visible! It’s distracting!”

Sidney tried to be polite, biting back his grin. “It’s not his fault, I guess.”

“Well, the gods blessed him in plenty of other ways, I suppose.” 

He’d never gossiped about match dates like this with anyone before. Well, almost.

That dimmed his enjoyment quickly. He took a sip of his water. 

Barbara quieted, watching him. She was perceptive. Sidney wished she had been his first ever match date.

“Hey, can I tell you a secret?” she asked. When Sidney nodded, she took a breath, and whispered, “I don’t want to find my match right now.”

Sidney did his best not to gasp but he must not have done a great job because Barbara blushed. “I know, it’s...it’s...I could never tell my parents. Or anyone.” 

“Why are you telling me, then?” 

“Well, my matchmaker spoke with your aunt, and she said you’d been on a lot of these too. I thought...well. Maybe there was a reason for you too. Maybe you’re looking for something different.” 

“I’m not, not really.” When Sidney thought of his future, of being ten years older, fifteen years older, he didn’t have any radical personal dreams. He just saw himself a lot like he was now, playing hockey, and matched with someone who was good to him. He just never let himself picture who that might be.

“It’s not like I don’t want to match,” Barbara added in a rush. “I really do want to match, actually. My parents are really happy. My brother, too. He just matched in August. It worked for them. I want it to work for me.”

“Me, too,” Sidney murmured.

“But at the same time, I’m just afraid I’m going to make a mistake and match wrong, and that will be just as hard on my family as if I was a spinster.”

It was easily the most shocking conversation Sidney had ever had with another orthodox. No one his age in his community would ever admit something as controversial as intentionally subverting the match process.

It was surprising, but then, Sidney was willing to bet Barbara had probably never kissed anyone, or let them kiss her, or gotten familiar enough with the process to start craving one particular person’s mouth on theirs.

He had pushed a lot farther than she was probably willing to go, and for a moment, he felt daring.

“Have you ever thought about...maybe your match isn’t. I mean. What if the gods chose someone for you who wasn’t. Of the faith?”

He’d somehow managed to surprise Barbara, he saw in some satisfaction. She raised her eyebrows, letting out a low whistle. “Wow. You’re an unusual guy, Sidney.” 

“You’re the one who was saying you don’t want to match!” he shot back.

“I said I didn’t want to get married right now. I can’t imagine what my family would say if I brought home a heathen.” She seemed to notice Sidney’s face droop and tried to course correct. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just. Wow. I can’t even picture it.”

Sidney couldn’t really either, was the thing. He shouldn’t be surprised to hear Barbara say that. For all her scandalous talk, she wasn’t eschewing the tradition. Just delaying it. She wasn’t where Sidney was, way out in the middle of nowhere, floating, no guide or hint of direction in sight. Just waiting for some sign. 

“Are you talking about someone specific?” Barbara asked carefully. She looked sympathetic. Sidney hated being pitied, and he regretted bringing it up.

“I’m going to use the restroom,” he said, excusing himself. “Sorry.”

She nodded politely, watching him go with a curious look on her face. She was a polite girl, Sidney thought. She’d make a great match some day when she was willing to settle down.

Sidney wasn’t sure he could say the same about himself.

He headed to the other half of the café where he’d glimpsed the restroom door on his way in. Turning the corner, he looked up and stumbled to a stop.

Why the gods would see fit to punish him, he had not idea. And yet, in what was surely some retribution for a grievous past sin, he’d apparently ended up at the same café with his match date as Max, Gonch and of course, Geno, who were eating lunch scrunched together in a hilariously undersized booth toward the front.

As Sidney watched, heart falling, Max whacked Gonch in the chin with his elbow and Gonch chided him, wearily, as though it had already happened a few times. Sidney was quietly freaking out too much to find it funny at the moment.

Max spotted him first. “Hey, Sid! What are you doing here, man?” 

Gonch turned as well. He took in Sidney with his usual implacable style. “Good afternoon, Sidney,” he said politely, before turning back to his soup. 

And then Geno, who’d seemed loose and relaxed even with his back to Sidney, froze, then turned slowly around like he was in a horror movie.

His face was carefully blank as he finally met Sid’s eye. 

“Sidney.” He never said Sidney’s name like that. Flat. No teasing or inflection. His face was blank but not calm and undisturbed like Gonch’s. It sounded unnatural.

Sidney felt shaky. He didn’t know what was wrong with him, he’d just seen Geno that morning. They managed to keep it together on the ice, and mostly in the room (the interlude in Sidney’s changing room notwithstanding since Sidney refused to let himself think about it, because it was awful). He didn’t know why seeing him out in the wild was giving him such fits. 

“Hey, Geno,” he said faintly.

“Are you just eating lunch by yourself?” Max asked. Then he seemed to take in Sidney’s button-up and nice jeans and hummed. “Oh, right. Match date, right?”

Gonch looked sharply at Geno, who was staring over Sidney’s shoulder with almost militant concentration. He met Sidney’s eye. “I didn’t know you were still doing those.”

“Why?” Geno cut in gruffly. He still wouldn’t look directly at Sidney. “Why he not? He want match. He good orthodox boy. Of course he match.” 

Gonch raised his eyebrows and said, strangely delicate, “I just thought—”

Geno cut him off. “None your business. None anyone’s business.” 

“Kind of a weird energy going on here,” Max remarked into the ensuing tense silence. “You guys good, or—” 

Sidney was already backing away. “I’ll see you boys tomorrow.” He pointed over his shoulder. “I need to.” He trailed off.

Max looked deeply confused by waved anyway. “Alright. Good talk.”

“Best wishes on the match,” Gonch said. He was still watching Geno, who had turned back to his meal by now without so much as a goodbye to Sidney.

“Bye, Geno,” Sidney said softly. He thought he saw Geno go still but he wasn’t sure. Gonch and Max were both watching him strangely now. “Uh. Bye, to you guys, too.” 

He turned on his heel and hurried on shaky legs to the bathroom, shoving into the tiny room and letting the door shut behind him. He braced his hands on the spindly sink and let his head hang between his shoulders. 

“Shit,” he muttered and felt bad about it. He needed to stop swearing so much. It was like the longer he was away, the less he could follow the many directions of being orthodox he used to barely have to think about, they were so unconsciously ingrained.

He didn’t realize he hadn’t locked the door until it was banging open against his shoulders. 

“Hey, I’m in here—” He glanced into the mirror and met Geno’s eyes reflected back at him, from where Geno was looming in the doorway. “Geno. What?” 

Geno didn’t answer, just shoved his way in and muscled the door shut behind him.

The room was already too small for just Sidney; with both of them wedged in there it felt like an airplane bathroom. Somehow Geno still managed to crowd even closer until the sink was pressing into Sid’s back.

“Why you look at me like that?” Geno demanded.

Sidney licked his lips automatically. He saw Geno’s eyes dart to follow the movement. “Like what?”

Geno looked outraged. “Like _that_.”

With a jerk, he grabbed Sidney’s shoulders roughly, fingers clenching kneading fitfully at the muscle. His hands were so hot, and Sidney knew he needed to leave. Instead, he let himself hang in his grip.

“Sid,” Geno muttered.

“Geno,” Sidney echoed, mindless. His passiveness just seemed to wind Geno up further. He leaned in, face inches from Sid’s.

“Why you say we’re done, you want match, and then look at me like that?” 

Part of Sidney prickled at the accusation and wanted to argue. The other part won out, though, and he could only gaze up at Geno, dazed. “I don’t know,” he said. 

One of Geno’s big hands slid up to grip Sid’s jaw. “You here with some nice match? That what you want?”

“Yes,” Sidney said through his suddenly dry throat. He couldn’t stop staring at Geno’s mouth. 

“Stop _lying_.”

All at once Geno yanked him close and smashed his mouth into Sid’s, shoving his tongue into Sidney’s mouth, angry groan vibrating against Sidney’s lips. Geno had never been this rough with him before and it should have been off-putting, but it had been _so long_ , it felt like forever, _weeks_ , and Sidney found himself melting into Geno, his arms snaking around his waist to hold tight.

He couldn’t help but push back up on his tiptoes and let his head tip back to give Geno full access to his mouth, loving the sounds Zhenya made as he licked and bit at Sidney’s lips.

He’d forgotten what a good kisser Geno was.

Geno shifted to press his face into Sidney’s neck. His hands were rough and grabby at his waist, holding Sidney tight to him like he was worried Sidney was going to try to pull away. Sidney wasn’t much better. He kept clutching harder at Geno’s waist, the feel of his lanky body pressed to Sidney making him slightly lightheaded with how good it felt. 

“Liar,” Geno muttered as he pressed kisses into Sidney’s throat.

“About what?” Sidney hated the way his voice sounded all breathy but he couldn’t help it. He couldn’t stop gulping for breath.

Geno didn’t answer right away. Instead, he took the time to shove his leg between Sidney’s knees, pressing it high up so his thigh was snug against Sidney’s thickening cock. Sidney bit back a moan, barely. This was more than they had ever done before. Geno had always been careful to shift politely away in the past, slow things down when Sidney got too worked up.

Geno wasn’t slowing down now, though. He didn’t seem able to. Sidney could relate.

“You say you want match, want good orthodox boy or girl,” Geno was muttering. 

“I do,” Sidney insisted, winded and not very convincing because he was distracted, “that _is_ what I want.” He shifted to press his cock into the firm pressure of Geno’s thigh. It lit him up from the inside. Geno groaned at the feeling like it was just as intense for him, which couldn’t possibly be true.

Geno bit at his throat, hard enough to sting and make Sidney hiss, jerking away and then into the feel of it.

“You don’t.” Geno’s voice was dark. “You lying.” 

“No, I’m _not_ ,” Sidney said, sharp now, because Geno was pissing him off.

“Then why? Why you spend weeks—touch me, kiss me, alone with me? Make me _crazy_ , Sid.”

Geno didn’t wait for an answer, just used his grip on Sidney’s hips to rock him into Geno’s thigh, helping him ride him. Sidney could only grab his shoulders, head thrown back so he could pant out a few breaths.

“I don’t know.” It sounded like Sidney was hearing someone else admit it out loud, someone lost and young and dumb. 

Sidney was so hard. He didn’t think he’d ever been this hard before, or this desperate to get off. Everything felt floaty. He leaned into Geno, who took his weight easily. He ran his hands down Sidney back and grabbed his ass, squeezing hard. 

“ _Sid_ ,” he groaned. He used his hold to help Sidney ride his thigh, his own cock pressing hard into the dip of Sidney’s hip, and it was suddenly too much. Sidney was suddenly frantic. He rutted desperately against Geno’s thigh, thinking about nothing but the way Geno felt pressed to him, the blood rushing in his ears, how horribly, terribly perfect this moment was, like rushing headlong off a cliff.

He gasped once, then twice, as he came in his jeans, hips jerking raggedly.

He went limp against Geno and was only hazily aware that Geno had shoved his a hand down his workout pants and was jerking himself almost violently, biting at Sidney’s collarbone. Sidney let himself hold Geno close for those last few moments and drink in the way his whole body tensed in erotic waves as he came, groaning in Sidney’s ear.

He gathered Sidney to his chest in the aftermath, holding on just as tightly as Sidney was Sidney’s heartbeat gradually slowed from a gallop.

Reality pieced itself together slowly at first, and then quickly.

He jerked upright and pulled away from Geno’s hold as the gravity of what they'd just done sank in. Sid couldn’t quite believe it. Geno let Sid go reluctantly, watching him worriedly.

Geno's cheeks were flushed, his mouth red and open. “Sid,” he said, reaching out to touch Sidney’s arm but Sidney scuttled away, or did his best to in the small space.

“Sid, I’m sorry.” Geno looked anguished. “Too far—I took too far—”

Sidney couldn’t listen to him apologize, or blame himself. “Geno, stop.” They’d both done it. Sure, it was different for Sidney, it was earth-shatteringly different for Sidney, but no one had forced him to do anything. 

Maybe he’d just been looking for a way to sabotage himself this whole time. Well, he’d found it. There was no going back now. 

“Gods, what are we doing,” Sidney asked no one. He looked down at his jeans. The stain wasn’t too obvious. He was going to have to go back out to Barbara. He edged around Geno and put his hand on the door. He looked Geno and tried not to sound hysterical when he begged, “Don’t follow me.”

He staggered like a sailor fresh on land back to his table on the other side of the café

He saw Barbara was now standing uncomfortably next to the table, and when he approached, she took one look at him and glanced uncomfortably away. 

He must look like a mess. He fought the urge to reflexively smooth his hair again. It probably wouldn’t help. His lips were probably all red and his neck swollen. Geno had looked similar as he’d watched Sidney flee the bathroom.

He couldn’t think about Geno right now.

He all but collapsed into his seat. Barbara remained standing. She was a was a good, innocent girl. She may not suspect the exact depths to which Sidney had shrunk, but she wasn’t stupid. She glanced toward the door. 

“You were gone a long time,” she said quietly. Sidney didn’t know what to say. And then, Barbara added quietly, “I went to see if maybe you had left. I passed the bathroom.” 

Sidney’s eyes widened so quickly it was painful. He looked up at her, pleading silently. Barbara shook her head. “No, I won’t—don’t worry. I’ll just—I’ll tell the matchmaker we just weren’t a fit.” Even her stutter made Sidney feel heavy with shame. He’d managed to shock the ease and good humor right out of her.

“I won’t tell,” she promised. She opened her mouth again, then seemed to think better of whatever she was going to say. After an endless moment as Sidney sat, head bowed, She touched the table near where his hand was splayed on top. A perfectly respectable gesture, no contact, modest. Even the most persnickety matchmaker wouldn’t be able to object. He was jealous, almost.

“Be with the gods, Sidney,” she said. 

“And unto you,” Sidney replied, the blessing automatic, and strangely soothing.

Sidney wasn’t sure how long he sat there after she left. When the waiter came by to ask if he needed more water (Barbara had evidently cancelled their order while Sidney was losing his—his virginity in the bathroom—gods, he could barely think the words, but they were true, it was what he’d done) he forced himself to get up and leave. To go home. To figure out what to do next.

And even though he had no idea how to even begin, slowly, he began to plan.

 

*

 

As always, when everything else seemed to be falling to absolute fucking pieces, at least Zhenya could comfort himself with his hockey. And this season was ending as one of the best he’d ever had.

This was the reason he’d left Russia and his family and burned nearly every professional bridge he’d managed to assemble in his short career so far, all for the chance to be a Penguin. To play NHL hockey.

So it was at least satisfying to know that from a purely hockey standpoint, the risk had been worth it.

If he couldn’t forgive himself for stealing Sidney’s virtue, at least he could vow to be so devilishly, single-mindedly focused on his game that no one could argue he was letting off-ice issues distract him, as distracting as they objectively were.

From the outside, Zhenya was sure it wasn’t noticeable. He and Sidney still played beautiful hockey together, they still did the same handshake, Sidney still let Zhenya go out last. If he refused to look at Zhenya or got skittish when Zhenya got any closer than five feet, well, most of the time everyone probably just thought it was Sidney being Sidney. Particular. Fussy. It wasn't fair, but Zhenya knew he should probably be grateful for any such assumption.

At least the season ended respectably, the Pens going down to the Sens in the conference quarter-finals in a way that was both disappointing but still left room for a rebuilding year to come.

“We’re on our way, boys,” Therrien said into the thoughtful quiet after they got knocked out in game five. 

It was a subdued group that went to the bar afterward, but Zhenya made himself go with, just for a few drinks. He rode with Sergei, and he was surprised when they got there to see Sidney catch a ride with Colby and Max.

He knew Sidney’s family was in town for the game. His parents and sister and another lady Zhenya couldn't identify had been featured enough times on the jumbotron that it was borderline intrusive, the whole rink breathlessly fascinated as the camera panned from the reclusive Crosby clan to Sidney’s determinedly bland game face on the bench. It had made Zhenya clench his fists but then forcibly relax; it wasn’t his business to feel defensive on Sidney’s behalf, not before, and definitely not now.

At the bar, Zhenya did his best to keep a respectful distance and try not to pine too obviously. Sergei had been giving him looks ever since they’d run into Sidney at the café, but Zhenya had been putting him off, and gods bless him, Sergei wasn’t pushing. 

Duper and Tanger were sticking to Sidney’s side like glue. Zhenya doubted he had told them what had happened, but they apparently sensed the disruption. Did they never stop hovering? It made Zhenya itchy seeing them so insistently close to Sid all the time. 

Flower was leaning into Duper, ignorant to any tension and staring earnestly at Sidney, an unknown number of beers deep and more than halfway to hammered.

“Man, if I was orthodox, I’d get on one knee and fucking propose to you right now, you fucking beauty,” Flower proclaimed. “Just lock all that down. What a season, kid. What a fucking season.” 

“Cool it with the language,” Duper said. 

Sidney made a face. “I can handle swearing. I’m not fragile.”

He caught Zhenya’s eye for a moment, holding his gaze. Zhenya couldn’t look away until Sidney broke first.

“I know you’re not, take it easy.” Duper patted the table soothingly. “But it doesn’t mean Flower shouldn’t watch his dirty fucking mouth, huh?”

The corner of Sidney’s mouth quirked. “I guess.”

Zhenya looked into his beer and took a deep, fortifying gulp. He wished he was drunker, even if having even one more beer would probably be a terrible idea.

The group broke up early, married guys like Mario and Sergei cutting out after only an hour, only a few of the guys most committed to picking up settling in for the long haul. Finally Zhenya broke, unable to keep watching Tanger and Duper solicitously crowd Sid and tease him in French and coax him into smiling, and so Zhenya slid out of the booth.

“Okay, I’m go,” he said abruptly.

Colby, who was nearest to him, made a face. “Okay? Bye, weirdo.” 

The rest of the guys who were paying attention waved, and Zhenya saw Sidney glance up, but he couldn’t torture himself by pretending Sidney was trying to send some sort of signal. 

But as he huddled on the curb, holding a hand out for a cab, the door to the bar opened and shut behind him, and he wasn’t surprised when he looked over his shoulder to see Sid sidling toward him.

He came to stand next to Zhenya, who was watching him warily. 

“Mario left,” Sid said in explanation. 

“You need cab?” Zhenya finally asked, after a long nonplussed silence.

Sidney nodded and waited for a cab to finally pull over. Zhenya let Sidney slide in first and then followed, careful to keep plenty of distance between them.

He’d been mad at how Sidney had cut him off without warning before, and he’d nursed the feeling of being wronged. But then he’d gone and completely fucking stepped so far outside the line that afternoon at the café, he could barely look at himself. All he had to do close his eyes to relive the look of dawning terror in Sidney’s eyes after he realized what they’d done, and Zhenya’s mind would go blank with the shame of it.

“I’ve been thinking a lot.”

That sounded ominous. Zhenya cleared his throat. “Okay. Me too. I’m—fuck, I’m fuck up. I’m so sorry, Sid.” 

Sidney rubbed at his eyes. “Geno, stop.” He sounded tired. “It was—we shouldn’t have done that. It wasn’t—it was a mistake.” That hurt to hear, even if it was fair. “But it wasn’t just your fault.” 

They rode in silence all the way to Mario’s, Zhenya trying to puzzle Sidney out, Sidney tightlipped under the obvious interest of the cab driver, who definitely knew who they both were.

When they pulled to the curb, Sidney turned to Zhenya, dogged in his impassiveness.

“Can you walk me to the door?" 

That was unexpected. For a moment, it was almost like they were on a regular date, not a match date or a furtive hookup in Mario’s guest room.

“Sure,” Zhenya agreed, acquiescence to Sidney mostly automatic at this point.

Zhenya decided not to ask the nosey cab driver to wait. He could just walk to Sergei’s, or more likely, call and wake him up to come pick up Zhenya like a recalcitrant child. It was fitting. Zhenya felt especially young and dumb tonight.

They walked silently to the door and rather than use his key, Sidney turned to face Zhenya.  

“I want to talk to you about something,” he said firmly. He had that harsh, brave Canadian face on that never boded well for Zhenya. “I’ve been thinking about what happened, at the cafe.” Zhenya opened his mouth, but Sidney cut him off. “Don’t apologize again.”

Zhenya sighed gustily. “Why not, Sid? I _am_ sorry.” 

“Me too, but that’s what I want to talk about.”

Oh shit, what if Sidney was about to say that he couldn’t be on a team with Zhenya anymore? Or that he needed to pay some sort of Orthodox penance or something, Zhenya wasn’t sure, it seemed like the sort of tribute his grandmother would demand. 

But then Sidney started talking, and the conversation abruptly went nowhere Zhenya was able to make sense of.

“I keep thinking about all the match dates I’ve been on," Sidney said, staring at his feet, up at Zhenya, around the gently lit porch, unable to settle on anything it seemed, "and I’ve always wanted to match with someone, you know? That’s what you’re supposed to want. But out of all the matches I’ve met, I can’t see myself with any of them. Not one. Isn’t that weird?"

Zhenya wasn't sure. There was probably a lot about the match process that was uncomfortable. But he didn't say that, and just watched as Sidney seemed to steel himself, and then— 

“I want to match with you.”

Zhenya rocked back on his heels, floored. “What.” 

This was one of those times where Zhenya couldn’t be sure if it was the English or the insanity of the entire conversation that was getting in the way of his comprehension, but whatever it was, he was lost. 

“Sid, you not make sense.” He tried to keep his voice gentle, and not let the hysteria creep through too noticeably. It was tough. He thought he was doing an okay job. “You not thinking right.” 

Sidney scowled at him. The familiar expression made a horrible ball of traitorous affection press against Zhenya’s chest from the inside.

“Don’t talk to me like a child, I’m not a child.”

Zhenya sucked in air, doing his best to reign himself in. The frustration was rising fast, thought. Sid wasn’t a child, obviously, but he was unworldly and almost innocent and Zhenya did his best to remember that as he looked down at his determined, stubborn face.

“I’m heathen,” Zhenya tried, each word even.

“You used to be orthodox. Your family was—you’re lapsed.”

“No, I’m _heathen_. I’m not believe.” 

“But we would be a perfect match,” Sidney said with absolute conviction. “You're just too stubborn to see it.”

A helpless laugh burbled over Zhenya’s lips. Stubborn? _Zhenya_ was the stubborn one? Madness.

“You being crazy, Sid.”

“ _Stop_ it, no I’m not. Just think about it. We would be so perfect, and you know it, and you won’t even _try_?”

Zhenya shook his head. “What—what you mean, try, there’s no _try_ , I’m not orthodox, we _can’t_.” They were going in circles. Why was it always Zhenya’s responsibility to remind Sidney of the orthodox ways at times like these? 

Sidney was perfectly still, every inch of him strung tight with—Zhenya wasn’t sure. Nerves. Longing. Who knew. 

“You could be,” Sidney insisted. “You grew up in the faith. You could come back.” 

He had that look on his face, completely unrelenting, like he got between periods when they were down a point and he was ready to tell everyone on his line what they were doing wrong and how they were going to fix it, if they would just get their heads out of their asses. He looked at Zhenya like he was being willfully obtuse, refusing to follow the play.

“It’s not easy like that,” Zhenya said, frustration edging out the tendrils of wonder he’d felt just a moment before that Sidney had actually considered him as a match. 

“It could be,” Sidney insisted, “you could be.”

“No, I _can’t_ ,” Zhenya shot back, and he was shouting, he realized, standing on Mario’s porch arguing with Sidney about _marriage_ , what was even _happening_  in this conversation? 

Sidney snatched both of Zhenya’s hands in his and yanked them to his chest, eyes wide and pleading. Zhenya had no defenses against that. 

“You were right, when you said I wasn’t being honest.” He was speaking quickly, words tripping over each other. Zhenya frowned, trying to listen, and he watched Sidney attempt to slow down, enunciating more clearly with extreme effort. “There are things I want to do differently, for myself. For my...my children, some day. I want them to grow up in the faith, and to be orthodox like me, and be baptized, and I want them to believe. Like _I_ believe, in the gods and our traditions, and I—I can’t, I can’t change that.” His eyes were glassy. He looked down at his hands again, now covered with both of Geno’s. “I’m sorry, Geno,” he choked out. “But I want them to have a choice, too, like I...like I want a choice. Now.”

Zhenya could only guess what his face looked like. He was holding probably too tightly onto Sidney’s hands now. “Oh?” He refused to hope for anything, even as he hung on Sidney’s every word with keen anxiety.

“I want a match, I really do,” Sidney said. He confessed it like it was some kind of sin, like he was ashamed. Zhenya hated it. He made a soothing humming sound, squeezing Sidney’s hands with his fingers. “I want to have what my parents have, but I don’t want a matchmaker to find me someone I don’t even know.” He looked up then, catching Geno’s gaze, and the look in his eyes was almost too soft for Zhenya to look at head on. “I want _you_ , Geno. You’re my match.” 

Zhenya made a distressed noise, unbidden. “Sid,” he breathed.

Sidney swallowed thickly. “But I can’t—Geno, I can’t give up my family. I can’t give up my community. I don’t want to.” He blinked and turned suddenly to rub his face against his shoulder miserably, never letting Zhenya’s hands free. 

Slowly, Zhenya disentangled from Sidney’s grip to take him gently by the shoulders. “Sidney, I not want, never, for you to leave faith, if you don't want.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Sid said, chin dipped down, voice muffled and overwrought.

All at once Zhenya hauled him in, wrapping him up tight and close to his chest. He could feel Sidney breathing wetly against his chest.

“Baby,” Zhenya whispered, helpless in the face of Sidney’s misery. 

He didn't mean to kiss him. But then Sidney tilted his head back and looked up, and his mouth was just right there, and he looked so distraught, eyes red, trembling just barely, that Zhenya couldn’t stop himself from pressing his lips to Sidney’s softly, gently, with infinite care. It didn’t matter if Sidney changed his mind, or pushed Zhenya away, or decided tomorrow to go on another match date with an infinitely more suitable person.

Right now, he was powerless to do anything but kiss him senseless until he didn’t look quite so ready to fly apart anymore. 

It was possible they might have stood out there wrapped in one another all night, oblivious to the world, if they weren’t interrupted.

The door creaked open, and a woman said, “Sidney?”

A world of bewilderment and disappointment bled through the single word. After the initial single word, she seemed shocked into absolutely dumb silence herself.

Sidney went stiff in Zhenya’s arms. Zhenya turned and found himself looking at a woman who could be no one else but Sidney’s mother.

As mother and son stared in something like awed horror at one another, Zhenya silently berated himself for not assuming Sidney’s family would be waiting up for him. For not anticipating what was fast feeling like an inevitable reckoning.

He didn’t need to look at Sidney to know he was pale. From the sound of it, he was also well on his way to hyperventilating, shoulders rising on each short pant. Zhenya kept an arm tight around him and turned to face Sidney’s mother more squarely. He wanted to nudge Sidney behind him, possibly shield him from the profound disappointment he could see in her eyes, but it didn’t matter much now, he supposed.

Zhenya felt something heavy and unavoidable and not entirely unpleasant settle in his stomach. 

If nothing else, he felt certain. 

Sidney didn’t pull away from Zhenya’s grip. He seemed to have lost the ability to resist at all and was leaning more or less completely against Zhenya, who did his best to keep him propped up.

It up to Zhenya to take the lead here, apparently. 

“Mrs. Crosby,” he said. In a rush, he tried to think if there was a formal way to phrase it, but he kind of doubted it. It wasn’t like any of his orthodox classes as a kid covered this, and for good reason; he had a feeling he was wading into completely unexplored territory. Still, when Sidney’s mother looked at him, he squared his shoulders and took the plunge. 

“I’m want to match with your son.”

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright alright, we're hitting our stride finally! second-to-last chapter should be up early next week, and I love you all, and your comments and kudos give me life, and thank you so much for sticking with me on this.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god what a beast of a chapter! thanks for your patience everyone, there was a storm around here and I kept losing power and couldn't post. NATURE.

*

 

Surely Sidney was having a stroke. 

“What?” He shrugged off Geno’s arm as well he could to face him. “I’m sorry, _what_?” 

He was pretty sure he’d just hear Geno offer to match with him. In front of his _mom_. Which couldn’t possibly be right, because he’d just spent the last twenty minutes trying unsuccessfully to get Geno to even consider the idea in the first place.

Geno waved a hand near Sidney’s face. “Quiet, Sid, talking with Mama.”

“What are you doing, Geno?” Sidney was so nonplussed that he forgot their very real audience for a second to poke at Geno’s shoulder, hard. “Geno, what are you _doing_.”

Geno swatted him away testily. “You say this what you want! Just doing what you want.” He turned the full weight of his attention onto Sidney’s mom, who was still watching them. Who still looked like Sidney had broken both her brain and her heart. “I’m want to match. We make a good match, I think.”

Sidney sputtered. “That’s what _I_ —why all of sudden—you wouldn’t even _listen_!”

He’d come to Geno’s house determined to convince him that a match wasn’t a crazy idea, in fact it was the _best possible idea_ , if only Sidney could get Geno to _see_ that. 

He knew it would most likely be a struggle, but he’d been prepared to give it his all.

When he’d visualized the entire effort, however, he’d thought about taking it in steps; convince Geno to see his side, make a plan, think of the best way to break it to his parents, then the community. He never thought the entire thing would essentially go down with his mom as a witness. 

Geno was glaring at him, full bully.

“What, can’t change mind? You make all rules now?” 

“No, but I think we should still plan to talk about it—”

“What to talk about, Sid, you say this what you want. I say okay.”

“I don’t want you to do it just because I told you to do it!”

“That _not_ _why_ , Sid. Come _on_.” 

“You come on! Don’t patronize me. I don’t want you to do this because you feel sorry for me.”

“Now you read my mind? Now you know why I do everything?”

“You weren’t that enthusiastic a minute ago!” Sidney tried not to sound too petulant bout that, but _really_ , he'd been _begging_  and now all of a sudden Geno was on boar?

Geno looked dark like a storm about to break, Sidney felt his own face melting into a deep moue of frustration and probably sulkiness, and they might have continued to spin out from there if his mom hadn’t interrupted.

“Sidney. _Crosby_.” 

His mom, who was still standing there, completely bewildered, watching them bicker. 

A deep flush ran over Sidney’s entire body so fast it gave him a head rush. Sidney knew in that moment it wasn’t possible to die from shame because otherwise, he’d have expired from mortification on the spot.

They were bickering, Sidney realized, while still mostly wrapped up in one other’s arms, somehow even closer than before, like they’d kept creeping in even as they argued—Geno’s one arm tight around Sidney’s shoulders, the other holding onto Sidney’s forearm, Sid’s hand somehow having found its way to the bottom of Geno’s shirt to grab hold with a tight fist, holding on.

He leaned away, desperate to put distance between them, mortified that his own mother was essentially watching him grope an unmarried young person right in front of her.

Geno didn’t release him right away.

“Let go,” Sidney hissed.

Sidney’s mom cleared throat and Geno finally relented. Grudgingly. He let Sidney step a bit away, and Sidney tried not to notice how much more alone he felt even with the tiny distance separating them. Especially when faced with staring at his mom, who was glancing between them both and blinking a lot. 

Growing up, Sidney was taught along with the other kids in the community that there wasn’t really any such thing as a hell. The afterlife was untethered from such earthly concerns as punishment and reward. The real hell was disappointing your family and then being forced to live with the knowledge that you’d let down your entire community. 

That concept was really resonating with him right now.

“Oh, Sidney,” his mom murmured. She sounded heartbroken. Sidney had broken her heart.

There was the sound of footsteps and then his dad appeared over her shouldr, because of course, Sidney decided in despair. Why not.

“Sidney? What’s going on?” His dad took in the sight of Geno. His mouth tightened. “Malkin. What are you—did you two come back together?” The implication being, _were you alone together_? And Sidney did his best to choke down a peel of hysterical laughter. Oh, if his dad only knew.

“Troy,” his mom said quietly. Her face was white. “Troy, I think...Sidney has something to tell us.” 

His dad’s eyes darted between Geno and Sidney, back and forth. His dad was nothing if not quickly able to spot a play. Unlike Sidney’s mom, he did not look disappointed or horrified. He was rapidly speeding toward irate. 

“What is she talking about, Sidney?” he asked.

Sidney was a grown man, he had to remind himself. He’d been living on his own for years, more independently than most young people his age would ever experience. Just because the dangerous tone in his dad’s voice made his stomach cramp didn’t mean he couldn’t speak up. 

He turned to look at Geno. Geno was watching Sidney’s dad, wary, but he looked over when Sidney did, meeting his eye.

Sidney really, really wished they’d had longer to talk through this on their own first.

He raised his eyebrows, desperate. _Are you sure? Were you being serious?_ It seemed insane to imagine that perhaps Geno had just been kidding, saying something like that to Sidney’s mom just because they’d been caught flouting every law of modesty and decency that had been drilled into Sidney’s head since birth—Geno wouldn’t be that cruel.

A tiny pucker grew between Geno’s eyebrows, his normally expressive face a curious blank. Until—

He nodded, once. Firmly.

Gods, Sidney hoped he was sure.

He inhaled, held it for a few beats, and as he let it out slowly through his nose, reached over and grasped Geno’s hand, eyes still locked on one another. If he was holding too tight, Geno didn’t complain, although Sidney could feel the bones of Geno’s hand grinding a little under the punishing grip. It felt like the only thing keeping Sidney tethered.

His mom was staring at Sidney and Geno’s hands. His dad’s face was stone. He was watching Sidney, taking in everything, their hands, the way Sidney was angling closer to Geno. The downright indecency of their position, in front of their elders, of Sidney’s _parents_ , no less.

There was truly no going back now. 

“I want to match with Geno,” Sidney said. His voice went low with his nerves, cracking on ‘match’ in a way Sidney would have really preferred not to, just in terms of projecting a cool, mature state of mind, but at least he'd gotten the words out.

He felt Geno squeeze his hand, slightly, just as much as he could muster with Sidney holding him so tight.

Sidney’s dad took a sharp, abortive step forward. Sidney didn’t flinch, because his dad hadn’t struck him since he was little and even then it was just spanking, way less than a lot of other kids go growing up, but the light in his dad’s eyes was borderline out of control.

“Sidney, get inside.”

Sidney was moving toward the door before he realized it, his feet obeying automatically. The only thing that held him back was the pull of Geno’s hand. Sidney’s feet stuttered and he stopped. Let the momentum send him back a step, closer to Geno. 

Their shoulders pressed together. His dad’s eyes twitched at the added contact.

Sidney had never deliberately disobeyed his dad in his entire life, but he was still ashamed at how cowed he felt now. It was hard to look him in the eye when his dad was infuriated, but there was something else there, too. Fear, almost. Like he was afraid, watching at Sidney touching Geno, standing so close to him.

“Sidney. _Inside_. Now.”

He felt like he stepped outside his body, the person he felt like most of the time in Pittsburgh, capable and independent and brave, and all that was left was some orthodox kid from Cole Harbor who, when it came down to it, just didn’t have it in him to defy his parents.

When he’d decided to follow Geno out to the taxi line, he’d thought it had just been this amazing coincidence—he’d been thinking more and more about just asking Geno, straight out, cutting through everything, and then the chance just _presented_ itself, like the gods were sending some sort of _sign_.

He hadn’t really thought anything else through. Obviously. And now—now he was choking under pressure.

“Geno, you should go home,” he said quietly. 

“No, I stay,” Geno said. Sidney glanced at him in surprise. Geno shrugged one shoulder, his true thoughts a mystery but at the very least resolute in his stubbornness.

“No, you go home,” Sidney’s dad snapped. “This doesn’t concern you.”

Geno seemed to be holding himself still, trying to deescalate. Sidney had no idea how long it would hold. They were still on the front porch, he realized. All this was happening in front of the whole neighborhood.

“Dad, please,” Sidney entreated, pleaded, really. “Let’s just go inside.” 

His dad stared at him, hard, and then turned to go back inside. His mom took a bit longer, eyes still wide, before finally following his dad in.

Sidney looked at Geno—well, he looked at their hands first, something about the sight of them touching making him feel a little more secure. Then up at his face.

“Geno,” he said softly. He had this creeping sensation of dragging Geno down into the swirling morass of his family obligation like the sirens of the sea in the olden day stories his grandmother used to read to him after Sunday worship. “Are you—are you sure?”

“Let's go inside, Sid,” Geno said, instead of answering directly. He nudged Sid forward with his hip, and then they were following his parents.

They ended up in the living room, which hardly anyone in the Lemieux used most of the time, formal and strangely fitting for this occasion. It felt like they were in Mario’s house but at the same time miles away from it; everything felt off balance from what Sidney had grown accustomed to.

Mario and the family must be asleep, he reasoned. Gods, please let them stay asleep.

His parents sat in two of the tall-backed chairs. Sidney sat on the couch and pulled Geno down with him, who went easily. Sid did his best not to crowd too close, although they were both big guys and it was a tiny couch, so their knees were touching firmly.

None of this escaped his dad.

“Sidney, please,” his mother beseeched. “Can you at least observe some of the proprieties? Must you—must you _touch_ him, so much?”

Sidney colored. Maybe he shouldn’t be shoving this in their face. But before he could adjust so they were sitting farther apart, Geno shifted beside him, straightening his shoulders.

“Well, say what you would,” his dad gritted out.

“Mr. Crosby,” Geno began, carefully, “Mrs. Crosby. I know this—this not how things are done.” His accent was heavier than ever. He spoke confidently enough but Sidney could hear it shaking just slightly beside him, from nerves or adrenaline, he couldn’t tell. “I apologize if—I know this bad way to tell you.”

“Tell us what, exactly,” Sidney’s dad was stiff in the chair, perched on the edge like he was ready to go flying off. Looking like he was just waiting for Geno to give him a reason. Even when other teams were horrible to Sidney during Midget, he never worried his dad was going to fight one of them, just the parents.

Geno adjusted his hold on Sidney’s hand, bringing it more firmly onto his knee. He didn’t seem to notice he’d even done it, like it was just for comfort. Sidney noticed. His parents noticed. Geno pressed on. “I know Sid been going on matches. He look for match.”

“Yes, you’re right,” his dad bit out. “Sidney is looking for a match. An orthodox match, someone in the community. Someone with the same beliefs, the same values.” He looked pointedly, finally, at where Sidney and Geno were so blatantly touching. It was a signal to separate but Sidney couldn’t. Geno didn’t move away either.

“But he’s not finding anyone. No one good enough.” Geno was blunt. Before Sidney’s parents could break in, he added, “He’s not happy.”

Sidney’s skin prickled. He hated being talked about like he was a little kid, not even in the room, who couldn’t be tasked to follow a simple process. He couldn’t look at his parents. Still, Geno wasn’t wrong.

His mom tried to meet his eye. “Sidney, we know this process hasn’t been—but you said you’d give it a chance,” she argued, her own temper beginning to rise, “you promised us, Sidney, you promised you’d _try_ —”

Sidney winced, and Geno cut in, mercifully, “I’m orthodox.” He spoke steadily. Lied, Sidney corrected silently. Geno wasn’t orthodox, which if anything had been made clear on the porch to Sidney before they'd been interrupted, it was that. He didn’t know why Geno was claiming different now. “My family, all orthodox.”

His dad narrowed his eyes. “There are no other orthodox players on the team.”

“It secret, for me. Already come from Russia, lot of talking, don’t want to make another big deal, you know?” 

“Geno,” Sidney muttered. What was he doing? Geno squeezed his hand, hard, and Sidney fell silent.

“First, think Sid only want orthodox from North America, you know? Maybe no Russian. But then—we start, um. We go on a few match dates. Just to see.” 

“Sidney, you went on match dates without _permission_?” His mom looked aghast at the very idea. Rightfully so, really. A few months ago, Sidney would also have been scandalized. And it wasn’t like it was his mom’s fault that she had no idea how much further than a match date Sidney had gone with Geno. He thought of that afternoon in the bathroom at the café. He pushed it aside. Now wasn’t the time. 

His dad looked unimpressed. “If you were orthodox, you wouldn’t have put Sidney in this position. You wouldn’t be flying in the face of our traditions, risking his reputation. Making demands.”

“I’m not _demand_ , just talking,” Geno insisted, eyes still averted respectfully, although anything seemed liable to set Sidney’s dad off.

“Then what are you doing?” His dad got to his feet, voice rising. He started pacing. “You come to us, you put your hands all over my son, you act as though you _know_ him—what do you want?”

“I’m want to match with Sidney.”

He had already said it outside, but hearing Geno say it again, sounding so sure, it was—it was a lot. Sidney felt himself take a shuddering breath. He glanced over and saw Geno was watching him. He couldn’t ask all the questions that were burning at him, not with his parents irate and watching, but he tried to ask with his eyes again— _are you sure? Are you being serious?_

Geno’s expression didn’t change. He just stared evenly back.

“This is outrageous,” his dad was ranting, sputtering really, “you think you can come to us and just lay some kind of claim on our son? You think you can just say you’re orthodox and suddenly you’re a match? You’re an outsider, you are not part of our community, you cannot just come in and expect to be handed a match—to be handed our  _Sidney_. You have _no right_.”

Sidney hadn’t been able to find his voice since they’d come inside. It was all he could do to listen to Geno and his dad argue without sinking deeper and deeper into the couch in shame. But hearing his dad talk, he couldn’t help it. His dad was wrong. Geno had every right. The right that mattered, at least to Sidney.

“I want him.” The room went quiet. Sidney tried to raise his voice from a murmur. “Dad, I know this is a surprise but—I want him. I want him as a match.”

His dad sat wearily in his chair. 

Losing his nerve just slightly, Sidney looked down at his knees, but forced out, “I know this isn’t what you expected, but—Dad, the match dates...it’s been. It’s been really awful.” He was surprised to feel his throat going tight. “I’ve been trying. I really have. And it’s just. It’s not working. It wasn’t working.”

“Sidney, we know it’s hard,” his mom tried. “We all know you’ve been trying.”

His dad snorted. “Not hard enough, apparently.” 

Sidney closed his eyes. He felt Geno’s hand tighten, and the soft weight of his other hand coming down on top of Sidney’s, cupping him tight in between. “Dad, please.” 

He heard his dad sigh. “Sidney.” He was speaking between his teeth like he did when he was trying not to yell. “Sidney, I’m begging you to stop and think for a minute, before you do something you’ll regret and can’t take back.”

“I’m not running off to Vegas to get married.” He chewed on his lip. “I’m just asking...please, can’t we at least...talk about it?”

The hushed silence that followed seemed to last for about nine years. All the muscles in Sidney’s legs and back were starting to ache from how tensely he was holding himself on the chair. Geno stroked one thumb over the back of Sidney’s hand, lightly, just barely there. Sidney tried to focus on that feeling, and not the way his heart was slamming into his chest. Everything seemed to hang in the balance, right then.

“Lyanne’s already asleep,” his mom said finally. “I don’t want to wake her up now, but you know she’s an early riser.” 

Sidney’s heart leapt, hearing that for the small victory it was.

“Is there any reason we can’t wait to discuss until the morning? Or are you demanding we hear you out now?” she asked, both eyebrows raised. Sidney could hear between the lines— _it’s late, we’re all emotional, let’s table this for now until we've all had some sleep._

"We can talk in the morning," Sidney rushed to agree. It was probably for the best anyway. The weight of the game earlier, his conversation with Geno, this drama unfurling before them now with his parents, it was all coming down on him in a fog of exhaustion.

His dad touched her arm. “Trina, are you sure?”

She gestured at Sidney, helpless. “Look at him, Troy. Your son comes to you, he’s miserable and afraid, the least we can do is have a conversation.” 

“This is against all of our traditions,” his dad argued, still piqued. “Every rule.” 

“Maybe it doesn’t have to be,” his mom shot back. She jerked her chin at Geno. “You, there. You say you’re orthodox? From a good family?” 

Geno nodded. “Yes. Family is orthodox.”

“Well, that’s a better start than nothing,” she said. She didn’t look thrilled. She looked ready to reach across to grab Sidney by the shoulders and shake him until he started making sense but was holding back, just barely. “Never let it be said that our family resisted listening to the gods just because we didn’t like what they were saying.”

“This isn’t the gods,” his dad muttered irritably. “This is just a disobedient son.”

That cut at Sidney. He’d never been called that before, not by his parents. He tried to push it aside. It wasn’t inaccurate, after all. Not now.

“So you know all the thoughts and wishes of the gods now?” His mom was lightly chiding, but it was a strong rebuke. His dad clenched his jaw together and nodded, grudgingly.

There was the sound of footsteps in the hall outside the living room. They all turned to watch Mario poke his head in.

He was in pajama pants and a robe, no top underneath. “Everything alright?” he asked mildly, squinting in the light. They must have woken him. “We heard some arguing.”

“Everything is fine,” Sidney’s mom said, refusing to look at him in his partial undress.

His dad had no such qualms in the moment. He gestured roughly at Geno and Sidney on the couch. “Apparently these two geniuses have been going on matches this entire time,” he said, every syllable an accusation. “Apparently they’ve been spending time alone, without approval from a mathmake or a chaperone whenever they pleased.” 

Mario looked blandly at Sidney and Geno, taking in the tableau. Sidney could only meet his eyes, caught out. He had no idea how Mario would respond to that.

“I trust Sidney and Geno,” he said placidly, after a beat.

Sidney’s dad laughed mirthlessly. “Well, trust this: now they say they want to match.” 

“What?” Mario glanced between Sidney and Geno, and Sidney’s parents, in a quick circuit in utter confusion. It finally appeared to penetrate. He looked at them both. “Oh. Shit.” He looked at Sidney’s mom and winced. “Sorry. Shoot.” 

“I think we’re far past that, Mr. Lemieux,” she said. Sidney winced. His mom only ever called other adults by their last names when they were in for it. “It seems there’s a lot we should be talking about with you, too, as the man in whose care we left our son.” She rose to her feet, still not looking at Mario. “But for now, to bed, I think.”

The rest of them got to their feet. Sidney swayed slightly at the head rush. He felt Geno touch the small of his back, steadying him. When Sidney smiled thinly but gratefully up at him, his dad made a strangled noise.

“That’s enough indecency for one night, I think!” He began making herding motions with his hands at Geno. “It’s time for you to go home, finally.” Under his breath he muttered, “Plenty of time to seduce innocent orthodox boys with their whole lives ahead of them in the morning.”

“Troy,” his mom said, sharp. 

“Oh, like you weren’t thinking it,” he shot back, wearily.

Mario stepped forward, murmuring something soothing, and the adults seemed poised on the precipice of some great quarrel, but Geno tugged on Sidney’s hand, stealing his attention.

Geno bowed his head to ask, softly, “You okay?” He looked worried. Protective, even. Like he didn’t want to leave Sidney alone.

Frankly, Sidney wasn’t looking forward to facing his family on his own either, but he wasn’t afraid, per se. Just deeply, deeply dreading the confrontation. He still didn’t want Geno to think he was somehow not safe with his own parents.

He still let himself gaze up into his dark, hooded eyes for an extra long moment, trying to memorize every detail. Things were far from settled. He didn’t want to forget anything about him, in case everything still fell apart.

“It’s okay,” he said. He gave Geno’s hand one last squeeze and stepped back.

As he watched Geno forcibly ushered out of the house, Sidney couldn’t help but plead silently to the gods that Geno knew what he was doing; that he was sure.

Because as he looked at Geno, Sidney was surer than he had ever been in his entire life. 

 

*

 

Eventually, Mario drove Zhenya back to Gonch’s house.

It had been distressingly hard to leave Sidney behind. There was no reason to think he was in danger or that his parents would hurt him, but Sidney kept staring at him with those wide, overwhelmed eyes, and it was all Zhenya could do to peel himself away.

Also because he knew forcing his presence on the Crosby family for another minute would probably cause the entire situation to erupt, and Troy Crosby already looked like it was literally all he could do to keep himself from taking Zhenya by the throat. Which, that was pretty fair. Even Zhenya could extrapolate if he himself were a traditional orthodox dad, and some foreign guy with no ties to the community waltzed in and told Zhenya he was going to marry _his_ sheltered hockey superstar son—well, maybe this was getting a little specific, but basically Zhenya could see where Troy was coming from.

As it was, they’d called a tacit détente. Zhenya agreed to leave and come back in the morning. Sidney agreed to stay and talk with his parents. Zhenya further agreed to trust that Sidney would still be there when he came back in the morning, and not spirited away back to Canada in the dead of night by his parents in an attempt to save him from Zhenya’s corrupting influence. 

The last one was the toughest one. 

He pulled out his phone and sent a text to Sid: _Don’t leave for Canada tonight._

 _???_ Sidney sent back. Then: _I’ll try my best??_

It was better than nothing, but still: _Promise Sid._

 _Okay fine, I promise._ There was a short pause. _It’s going to be okay, Geno. I’ll make it okay._

Zhenya closed his phone, marginally comforted. A lot could change overnight.

Possibly the only comforting thing at the moment was that Mario was possibly the most upset about all of it, and Zhenya couldn’t help but take a certain perverse amount of pleasure in that.

He was shaking his head as he stared out the window. “Geno, this isn’t what I wanted for Sidney.” He glanced at Zhenya, deeply troubled. “Christ, it wasn’t what I wanted for _you_. I’m responsible for this.”

He looked shaken.

And just like that Zhenya felt himself soften. Mario might be kind of a dick about Sidney’s religion but he was still a great captain and an excellent teammate. A father to his own children as well, Zhenya tried to remember.

“Mario,” he said. He tried to think of the best thing to say, and settled on, “It’s okay.” 

“How can you say that?” Mario demanded. “Two twenty-one-year-old kids tell me they’re getting married, how is that okay?”

Zhenya was twenty-two, but he decided it didn’t make much sense to quibble. 

Mario put on his turn signal, the melodic clicking the only sound in the car.

“Geno, what were you thinking? Just because Sid asks you to do something, doesn’t mean you have to go along.”

“Mario.”

“I know he’s your friend, and that you’re close, but you have a choice—that’s what I’ve been trying to show _Sid_ , he has a _choice_ , you don’t have to do any of this—" 

“ _Mario._ I'm ask _him_.” It was mostly right, in the end.

Mario’s hand slipped on the wheel, the car veering very dramatically into the other lane for a moment before he righted the ship. He whipped his head around. “What?” It was possibly the most emotion Zhenya had ever seen him display off the ice. 

“Or, I'm ask parents, Sid’s parents. I'm ask for match. Not Sid.” Well, not entirely Sid. Zhenya was thinking of it as a bit of an assist, really.

They came to a stop sign and Mario came to a total, non-Pittsburgian stop, and started shaking his head. “Why? Geno, just. Why?”

Zhenya didn’t know quite where to begin. It still felt mostly surreal to him, and the more he thought about it the harder time he had pinning down exactly when things had gone sideways. Perhaps most surprisingly, the more he thought about it, the calmer he also became. Yes, he couldn’t nail down why he had blurted out a match offer, but now that he had, he'd managed to firmly tether Sidney to his side.

It was like letting free some silent longing he’d never known he’d possessed.

“I just—it what I want.” Zhenya couldn't think of anything truer he could say.

Mario made a disbelieving noise. Zhenya thought that was fair, too. He wasn’t making an incredibly strong case for his actions by any means.

Asking to match with Sidney had turned him pretty magnanimous, at least for the moment.

“Is it too late to change your mind?” Mario asked quietly.

Technically not, Zhenya knew. The only witnesses were Sid and his parents and Mario, and three of the four would happily forget they’d ever even met Zhenya if it meant keeping Sidney protected, let alone denying the match request. 

But what Zhenya remembered most clearly was the feel of Sidney leaning heavily against him in his misery, then, the front door had opened and Trina Crosby stared at them, the awful shock spreading across her face. Time had stood still, and he had felt Sidney stiffen at his side.

It was that movement that had sent him hurtling forward, in the end. 

“Too late for me,” he hedged. At least that was true, too. He wouldn’t repudiate Sid, not even if it was just to him and his parents. Especially if it was to him and his parents. Sidney deserved someone who wanted him enough to risk alienating his parents, if that’s what it took.

If there was one thing Zhenya knew, it was that he wanted Sidney enough.

They arrived at Sergei’s, Mario pulling neatly to the curb.

“Is there anything I can do to change your mind, do you think? To change Sidney’s mind?”

If Zhenya told him no, he’d probably take it as a challenge. If he told him yes, Mario would most likely move ahead with whatever interference he was hurriedly planning in his head with increased gusto. 

“Thank you for ride,” he told Mario gently.

He let himself out and walked up the steps to the house. Mario’s car was still idling out front when Zhenya closed the door behind him.

Things felt almost dreamlike as he crept through the dark, quiet house to the guest room and pulled off his shirt and pants and slipped into bed. He stared up at the ceiling, marveling at how it looked the same as every other night even as the world had shifted on its axis.

Now, in the quiet, he waited for some kind of panic to kick in. When it wasn’t forthcoming, he went over the events of the night and tried to tease out some element of guilt or uncertainty or resistance. Mostly he was worried that Sidney’s parents were most likely berating him at this very moment across town, and there was nothing Zhenya could do about it. 

Other than that, he felt calm. Oddly so.

He was really doing this. He was going to match with Sidney, if Geno had anything to say about it. If Sidney didn’t cave to his parents. 

But first, he had to tell his mama.

He sent Denis an email on the rickety laptop the Gonchars let him borrow. It was short: _Hi Denis, remember how you always said I was Mama’s favorite son. Well. You should probably go check on her and Papa later today._

He hit send and pulled out his phone to start messing with his prepaid calling card. It took him two tries, which was three less than normal, and chewed his cuticles when the call finally connected and started to ring.

It was mid-morning at home, and for a moment Zhenya hoped that maybe she would be out running errands. It was a cowardly wish and worse, unlikely. She usually did chores around the house before lunch.

His mama was immediately worried. “Zhenya my love, what’s wrong? What happened?”

It wasn’t their usual Wednesday call, barring games, and Zhenya realized she was probably assuming the worst.“No, Mama, I’m fine, everything’s fine.” He hesitated, just a moment. “Something has happened and I need to tell you about it.”

“Are you hurt? What is it? Your father and I watched your game, we didn’t see anything—did something happen then?” 

It made it especially hard to tell her something he knew would upset her with the image of her and his father hunched around the old TV in the middle of the night watching Zhenya lose a hockey game on the other side of the world.

He took a breath. No reason to draw it out. She didn’t appreciate indirectness, even if it might hurt.

He told her the shortest version of the truth. She knew Sidney was orthodox, and pointedly avoided talking about it whenever Sidney came up on their calls. So it didn’t take too much backstory to explain that through a series of rapid but not necessarily unavoidable events, Sidney had decided he wanted to match with Zhenya, and Zhenya had agreed. 

It sounded pretty simple when Zhenya finally fell silent. It sounded almost reasonable when he didn’t have to explain any of his reasoning behind it.

His mama was surprisingly silent as he haltingly laid the story out before her. It was unlike her. It made Zhenya nervous.

They sat in silence for a while, thousands of miles away, Zhenya doing his best not to breathe too loudly over the phone as he waited in increasing anxiety for her verdict.

Finally, she said, her voice low, “Zhenya, this is never what I wanted for you.”

He closed his eyes, and sat up, pulling his knees into his chest. “I know, Mama.” 

“No, you _don’t_ know. You make these decisions, you jump in, and you don’t have any idea why you do anything.”

“Mama, that’s not—” 

“You never _think_ , all you do is act. Why don’t you ever take the time to think things _through_ , Zhenya?”

“I’m sorry,” he said helplessly.

She laughed harshly. “You’ve decided to ruin your future.”

“That’s not what I’m doing,” he insisted.

There was a choked sound on the phone, he noted in more than some alarm. His mama never cried. Probably it was just an exclamation of rage that didn’t translate well through the phone. 

“Mama,” he said. “Mama, I just wanted you to know.” 

“Like you wanted us to know when you left? When you disappeared from Finland and popped up on the other side of the world?” 

“That wasn’t what happened.” It wasn’t. Zhenya had told his parents he was planning to leave, that he wasn’t going to spend another year missing out on the NHL just so a bunch of old men could force him to stay on a team he had grown to resent.

“Maybe it didn’t feel that way to you.”His mama made a clicking sound with her teeth. “You’re too young, this is too young to marry, to match. This was why we took you away from the community, you and your brother. This isn’t what we wanted for you. We wanted you to have a choice.”

“I do have a choice.”

“You think you do. But you’re being pulled into this world you don’t completely understand, and you’re trying to be the savior for some boy, and it’s all tumbled together with this loyalty you feel to the _team_ , not yourself, and I’m just—I’m very worried about you, Zhenya.” 

He chewed on his lip, frustrated and unsure where to go. His mama wasn’t always the easiest person to talk to. She was sharp and lost her temper easily. Zhenya found himself spending most of their conversations quietly trying to ease around the sharp corners of her mood because they were never just fighting about one thing, they were fighting about everything, suddenly, all at once.

“You’re honestly telling me that of all the freedoms you have in America, all the choices, the independence, you’ve decided what you want to do is shackle yourself to a backward, dying religion just because you have an unfortunate crush on a boy?”

Put like that, it was stupid and childish. No one could make him feel that way more succinctly than his mother. He made himself breathe through it, wait until it passed.

“And there’s nothing I can do, is there?”

It made Zhenya feel like a bad son when he admitted, “No.” He couldn’t think of a single thing she could say to change his mind. He hated knowing he’d angered her and made her upset. He felt no different about his decision with Sidney. 

His mama cleared her throat. When she spoke again, she sounded more in control. She’d always been well suited to rolling with change. “You’re going to have to ask your grandmother permission,” she declared with some relish.

Zhenya blanched. “What? No, I’m not.”

His mama laughed, not entirely kindly. “You want to be orthodox again so bad? You think that boy’s community is going to let you in just because you asked? They’ll want a reference. Demand one, really.” 

“Shit,” he murmured. It wasn’t ideal, but of course his mama was right. Nearly every orthodox community had to clear all its big decisions through an elder, or a group of them. It was becoming more fashionable to have a more democratic elder council these days, but in Zhenya’s family, before they left the community, it had always only been his grandmother. 

The last thing he wanted was to hear his grandmother gloat about him crawling back for her assistance. It was definitely something she would hold over his head until the day he died, and probably over his whole family, especially his mother.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay, you’re right. I’ll call her.”

“Just like that, huh?” She seemed to take his willingness in reluctantly.

If his horrible harridan of a grandmother would smooth things over with Sid, then, “Yes, just like that.”

“My goodness, we’ll need to meet this Sidney when we come visit then, won’t we?” She added darkly, “You’ll be matched and married by then, of course. Those people don’t like to let grass grow when their young people pair off.” 

It was on the tip of his tongue to ask his mama to come to America now. To be there for whatever happened next. Sidney had his family and an entire community just waiting to swoop in if anything went wrong. Zhenya let himself hope, wistfully, for his own people to be there for him. 

But his mother didn’t offer, and Zhenya couldn’t bring himself to beg. It was a signal. His mama wouldn’t fight him on this, but she wouldn’t give her blessing. It was no less than Zhenya expected. 

Before they hung up, though, she did surprise him. “I’m glad you told me.” She sounded hoarse, and it made Zhenya feel awful to hear. “I’m so disappointed, but at least you told me and I didn’t have to find out from the news.” Zhenya rubbed at his face, feeling guilty. He didn’t want to think of his own mama feeling like the only way she could keep tabs on him was through some newspaper article. But then, he supposed even though they talked every week, they rarely let it get too personal. That was both of their faults, Zhenya tended to think. But maybe it was more him, this time. 

She hadn’t known about him and Sidney until just today, after all.

He didn’t know quite what to say to make to fix the melancholy he heard in her voice. He tried anyway. “Mama, I know it doesn’t make sense. But he’s what I want.” 

A traditional match had never been his dream, and he didn't want to rejoin the orthodox faith. But he did want Sidney. 

She took a long wavering breath. “I feel so far from you, sometimes. I know it’s natural, that kids grow up and move and build their own lives. But most kids don’t go quite so far as you do, my love.” 

They said goodbye and hung up, and Zhenya let himself sink into the bed and close his eyes. It took him a while before he stopped hearing his mama’s said voice in his head. He wondered if Sidney was feeling equally inadequate and complicit in his own mother’s unhappiness over at Mario’s. He hoped Sidney was already in bed and had at least escaped the conflict for the evening. 

He fell asleep worrying about Sidney, and woke up the next morning to his phone vibrating under his pillow, the sensation slowly dragging him from sleep. It was still dark outside, he noted resentfully.

He groped blindly for the phone and cracked his eyes open to squint at the screen.

It was Sid.

Zhenya fumbled in his haste to put the phone to his ear, kicking at his sheets so he could sit up. “Sidney?” 

“Hi,” Sidney said. He sounded tired, but not upset. Steady. Zhenya drank it in. 

“Hi, Sid.” He probably looked really goofy with how he was smiling. He didn’t care. He was alone at least. He wanted to ask what had happened with Sidney’s parents, what they had decided, but Sidney was determined.

“Do you want to come to Cole Harbor with me?”  

Every word was wrought with nerves. Like Zhenya would somehow say no. As if he wasn't as entangled in this as Sid was, and willingly.

He shook his head, fond, even though Sidney couldn't see him.

He took pains to say, as clearly and confidently as possible, “Yes, Sid. I want.” 

He wasn’t surprised to find he really, really meant it.

 

*

 

Sidney usually loved going home. It was like shucking off an enormous weight he hadn’t noticed he’d been carrying until he was getting off the plane and his cousins and aunts and uncles and neighbors and whoever else was usually waiting for him at the airport was hugging him and he could really _breathe_ again.

Usually, he started feeling the relief almost as soon as he got on the airplane, but not this flight. Not this time.

He was sitting next to his mom, while his dad had Geno wedged into the window seat across the aisle. He could tell his dad was deliberately hogging the arm rest. 

Geno met his eye and smiled ruefully. Sidney tried to apologize with his eyes.

“Stop staring,” his mom said, nudging him with an elbow. “It’s not polite.”

Lyanne was behind them and reached through to poke Sidney in the arm. “Listen to your mother.”

“I am!” he argued. “Stop poking me!” He felt a tinier knuckle knock him in his lower back. “Taylor, stop.”

“You stop,” she shot back.

He never remembered being able to sass back like that when he was her age, but when he twisted around to glare, Lyanne had an arm around her. “You worry about yourself, and your life and your choices,” Lyanne said. Taylor looked at him smugly, grinning.

Sidney bit his cheek to keep from smiling at her. He hadn’t gotten to see Taylor much at all during the season. He’d been looking forward to spending some uninterrupted time with her that weekend when they'd been planning to stay the weekend in Pittsburgh before heading back to Cole Harbor, but obviously, those plans had been turned on their head. 

“Monkey,” he called her now. 

She grinned, pleased now that he was giving her his full attention, apparently. “ _You’re_ a monkey.” 

“No, you.”

“No, _you_.”

He made a face and she laughed, delighted.

“Children,” his mom said mildly, tolerant of their shenanigans despite being in public. “Settle down.”

When Sidney turned to face front he caught Geno watching him this time. He was smiling, soft. Sidney flushed but resisted the urge to stare back, his mom still on alert.

His dad hadn’t said more than a few words to him all day. He was staring stonily at the headrest in front of him like it owed him money, ignoring Geno and doing his best to ignore Sidney, too. 

He was evidently still reeling from their conversation that morning.

Sidney’s mother had pulled him out of bed early, after sending everyone to bed as soon as Geno had left.

They’d sat in the living room again, Mario and his family giving them space, albeit seemingly with extreme reluctance, in Mario’s case. His parents sat across from him, Lyanne on his side. Taylor was still sleeping up in her room.

His mom took his hand. It made it harder for Sidney not to look her in the eye, which Sidney assumed was tactical on her part.

“We're just so disappointed, Sidney.”

That one landed like a punch. Sidney had stared fixedly just over his mom’s shoulder, taking it.

“Our family is one unit. We don’t keep things from each other. We don’t lie.”

He immediately wanted to retort that he hadn’t lied, he just hadn’t told them about Geno, but some remaining sense of self-preservation held him back.

Lyanne placed her hand flat on the table. “We do things a certain way for a reason, Sidney. You can’t just abandon our ways because you got impatient.”

“It wasn’t like that.” 

“Just because this Eugene might be orthodox,” and the pointed pause Lyanne gave there showed a lot about what she and Sidney’s parents really thought about that pronouncement, “doesn’t mean you get to choose things all on your own. That doesn’t negate the rules.”

“I’m sorry,” Sidney said, and about some of it he was, that he’d upset his parents, and probably put Lyanne in a tough spot with the matchmaker back home who was helping to coordinate all of Sidney’s match dates.

He wasn’t sorry about all of it, though. Not even most of it.

At his passivity, his dad was getting heated again. It was like he wanted Sidney to fight back, or at least give them more of a target. “Frankly, I think the real discussion is how this impacts your season next year. I don’t see any way we can trust you to live here unsupervised, now. Your mother and I will probably need to move down here to keep an eye on you.”

“Troy, that’s not the main concern,” his mom interjected.

“Trina is right.” Lyanne watched at Sidney, the frankness in her eye making dread settle in Sidney’s stomach. “The main concern is making sure your poor choices don't ruin your chances for a good match in the future.” 

Sidney shook his head to clear it. “Wait. What?” A good match in the future, what did that mean? He had a good match _now_.

His mom shook her head firmly. “I don’t see how there’s any way we can support this fiasco with the Malkin boy.”

A fist of panic began to tighten around Sidney’s heart.

“No one knows about this disgrace but us, and that man you’ve been staying with that let this happen,” Lyanne said, sharply bitter at the mention of Mario. “We can make this go away.”

“No,” Sidney said softly.

“I know it’s not what you want to hear, but there’s no reason to let this ruin your prospects.” 

They were going to try to stop him, Sidney realized. They were going to make it seem like nothing had happened last night, like Geno hadn’t asked for a match, chosen _Sidney_ , stubbornly, insistently. Perfectly.

“I’m no longer chaste,” he cried out, voice unnecessarily loud in the hushed dining room, the old-fashioned phrase a relic from Sunday classes after worship, feeling odd on his tongue even as it brought the other adults in the room to an absolute standstill.

“Sidney,” his dad said slowly, dangerously, “what are you saying?”

“I’m no longer chaste,” Sidney repeated, on the verge of babbling like an idiot, “I—we—Geno and I. We.” He couldn’t say it out loud, gods above, he begged, let that degrading burst of honesty be sufficiently detailed for his parents.

His dad swore long and low under his breath, which was shocking enough that Sidney jerked. His mom had gone completely scarlet.

“You mean, when I found you—you’d done, _more_ than that? More than the immodesty I saw there?” She made it sound like Sidney had killed something with his bare hands. In a way he had, if they were speaking of his virginity the way the old scriptures did, like it was a living thing to be protected against the slavering barbarians at the gate.

Lyanne snatched up his hand, squeezing hard. “Sidney. _Sidney_.” She met his eye urgently. “Did that boy—did he force you?” 

“What? No!” The very idea—Sidney had practically thrown himself at Geno, and Geno had in turn needed to peel him off to make Sidney stop. Until the bathroom in the café, of course, but he did his best not to think in detail about his actual deflowering in front of his parents. “He didn’t do anything, I wanted to.”

His dad swore again. His mom hit him in the arm. “Pull it together, Troy,” she hissed.

“Oh, Sidney,” Lyanne said sadly. She looked shaken to her core, but it was no different than her expression since she’d woken up that morning and been told the original details by Sidney’s mom. His parents looked the same. Sidney thought maybe, eventually, he could get used to it, being the disappointment. One day.

But for now, he needed to focus on keeping Geno. Even if it meant going nuclear.

“So we have to match,” he said. “I’m not a virgin anymore.” It was the more vulgar way to say it, but he wanted to make sure they got it. 

“You’ve managed to tie this up just to your liking, haven’t you?” his dad had said, but he’d stopped arguing then.

“And you’re sure he’s orthodox?” his mom checked, still skeptical. Rightfully so, Sidney didn't have the heart to tell her. 

So he did his best to ignore the lie as he nodded fervently. 

His mom had gone to change their plane tickets right away. At that point, there had been no point in arguing anymore, not after what Sidney had revealed. His mom and Lyanne had switched into planning mode, while his dad continued to fume.

And now, disembarking from the plane, Sidney’s parents determinedly maintaining a barrier of at least two people between Sidney and Geno at all ties, his dad seemed to have only gotten angrier, while his mom and Lyanne seemed more and more resigned.

 A whole group of family was waiting for them inside the airport with signs.

They were rowdy when they caught sight of Sidney, which was normal and expected, but they erupted into chaos when they caught sight of Geno.

Obviously, they’d all seen Geno’s face before on TV or at games for those that had managed to make it out to see Sidney play. But in the time between Sidney’s conversation with his parents that morning, inviting Geno to Cole Harbor, and the plane touching down, Lyanne had evidently concocted enough of a story that entirety of the community believed that Sid was bringing home a match that was no different than ay of the dozens of orthodox young people he’d been fruitlessly going out with for the past few months.

He owed a lot to Lyanne, probably, and her ability to discreetly spin a tale.

Geno looked back at Sidney in mild alarm as a couple of Sidney’s aunts pulled Geno down by the shoulders to look him in the eye. 

Sidney went to rescue him but Lyanne held him back. “He’s fine.” She arched a brow. “He’s used to it, after all, I’m sure. Big orthodox family, they just want to get to know him, right?” 

Sidney had no idea what Geno’s family was like in Russia, so he kept his mouths shut, watching uncomfortably as Geno was essentially passed around the crowd, lanky body bouncing from relative to relative.

Eventually, Geno was set free temporarily and he followed Sidney, hair a mess, eyes a little wild, to one of the cars outside.

“You good?” Sidney asked in concern. 

Geno looked at him. “Lot of family. Know this, just, to see it—lot of family, Sid.”

Sidney nodded faintly. Geno had no idea, really. He would soon.They had a classic cookout for the whole community when they got back to Cole Harbor at his Uncle Brian’s big house on the cul-de-sac, ostensibly to celebrate Sidney’s return for the summer, but more accurately to provide everyone the chance to scrutinize Geno up close.

It didn’t take long to hear from more than one relative or community member that Sidney had chosen quite well for himself, wasn’t it lucky he’d managed to find a nice orthodox boy all the way in some heathen American city, truly the gods were generous and merciful.

His dad’s youngest brother Frank gave Sidney a look that made him squirm a little bit. “He seems like a sturdy young man,” he said. He grinned. Sidney blushed, uncomfortable, as Frank kept smirking at him.

What he did understand was that Geno looked good in the sun, face pink and shoulders strong and broad, and as Sidney looked at him, he noticed more than one admiring glance, and he felt a wave of pride sweep over him.

He’d never experienced the peculiar, proprietary satisfaction of showing someone off to his community before. It was something he would never have known to even look forward to with a match.

He was surprised by how much he liked it. 

He was standing off with some of his cousins he was closest too, having escaped Taylor and her friends and their insistent demand to be swung around until Sidney was dizzy. He’d lost track of Geno for a moment until he noticed he was across the way, waylaid by some aunts who were trying to get him to take an extra plate of food even though he was only half done with the one in his hand. He made some joke and his aunts laughed, walking away smiling. Geno had that effect on people, even here.

A few of Sidney’s bolder cousins were eyeing Geno appreciatively.

“He’s easy on the eyes,” Andrea, his third cousin on his dad’s side, said under her breath.

“ _Andrea_ ,” Christopher, one of Sidney’s old classmates, not related by blood but more or less a cousin at this point, chided sharply.

Andrea smirked. She had always been a troublemaker. “Oh, come on. Like we’re supposed to pretend not to notice? Obviously, Sidney wasn’t turning a blind eye in the locker room.”

“That is _not_ what happened,” Sidney cut in, slightly outraged. “It’s not like that at _all_.” 

Another cousin, David, who was technically Sidney’s uncle but because he was four years younger he was practically a cousin, laughed, not unkindly. “I think we all know Aunt Trina and Uncle Troy just made their peace with the gods over that one. No one can play hockey and not see a few naked heathens, it’s just math.” 

Sidney was blushing and ducking his head. He really rarely saw any of the guys naked, they were respectful enough not to rub it in Sidney’s face, and an unspoken system had been established the year before that the guys changed behind Sidney’s eyesight while he talked to media, and they kept it discreet until he left to change himself. 

He glanced over at Geno, not quite meaning to but unable to let his eyes drift away for too long. Unfortunately, his cousins noticed and immediately started carrying on.

“Look at that blush!" 

“Our Sidney, so forward. What would the matchmaker say?”

“Save it for the match night, come on, now.”

Sidney dissolved into helpless giggles by the end of it. It was like being chirped by the team, which he was more than used to at this point, but easier, somehow. His cousins had known him his entire life, and they’d spent years arguing and fighting and ganging up on each other and taking the blame for one another in turns for an endless series of mischief and childhood accidents.

They’d probably be bickering for real in an hour or so, and it most likely wouldn’t pay to completely let his guard down before the matchmaker had a chance to meet with Geno, but for now, he felt his shoulders go loose. He was home.

Across the yard, the youngest of the kids were trailing after Geno with a determined focus, so closely that Sidney’s cousin’s youngest son Simon kept tripping over Geno’s ankles and stumbling into the backs of his knees.

For a while, Geno accepted their overbearing fascination with easy grace, and the third time Simon stumbled, he reached down and scooped him up onto his shoulder. 

Sidney felt like a cliché for the way his stomach felt molten watching Geno casually manhandle the kids, but knew it was fruitless to resist. He was always helplessly charmed by everything Geno did. It didn’t make sense to start resisting now.

Sidney realized he was staring again when Andrea nudged him with her elbow. “So he’s a good match?” She seemed keen on his answer. All his unmarried cousins nearby had quieted down, he noticed. Like they were all focused on his answer.

Sidney swallowed. He nodded. Everything felt heavy, suddenly.

David put his chin in his hand. “I can’t believe you managed to match with an orthodox on your own team. What are the odds, you know?”

Sidney did his best not to react. No one knew the truth of the irregularity of Sid and Geno’s courtship other than Lyanne and his parents. He still wished he could have censored nearly all of the details that weren’t “we hugged for the first time on the porch and then Mom found us.”

But most of all no one knew about Geno’s distant relationship with orthodoxy. Only his parents seemed to suspect. 

“Some people just walk in the light,” Christopher reasoned, and the other cousins murmured at the well-worn refrain.

Andrea leaned in so her shoulder touched Sidney’s lightly, a comfort. “The gods have always blessed Sidney. And he’s worked hard to deserve them.”

No one argued with that, and Sidney did his best not to squirm under the attention. His cousins were being serious, but it never sat well with Sidney when he was set apart from the rest of the community. He wasn’t any better than them. Just because the gods had given him something, didn’t mean he was any more important.

But his cousins never seemed to resent him, just like no one else in the community did, at least not outwardly. No one wanted to seem ungrateful that the gods had seen fit to grace their community with Sidney’s talents. A community was responsible for the successes of its members, after all, and Sidney tried to let that collective pride push through any discomfort he felt at being so consistently singled out all his life.

Across the yard, Zhenya had set Simon down and was organizing an elaborate game of tag that quickly devolved into a half a dozen kids chasing after Zhenya in a mob. He was laughing, happily dodging their efforts, until they took him down in a swarm.

“Careful!” Sidney called out reflexively. Zhenya still walked gingerly on his knees sometimes. The last thing he needed was to twist it as a result of Sidney’s overly exuberant relatives.

Christopher pulled him down onto the grass. “They’re fine, you worry too much.”

Sidney and the cousins watched Zhenya break free and run away, cackling, as the kids stumbled after, whining and protesting and also laughing. 

“He’s not like any orthodox I’ve ever met,” his cousin Shari said dubiously. She was watching as Zhenya stopped to catch his breath, ignoring the kids pawing at hi to stretch his arms over his head, his shirt rising up to expose a long strip of pale, flat belly.

Andrea whistled under her breath. Even David was staring now.

“Well, he’s Russian,” Sidney rushed to explain. “Things are...different, there.”

Zhenya was bending far to his right, then his left. It was almost obscene.  
  
“Clearly,” Shari replied.

Sidney stood up. “You guys are the worst,” he declared. His cheeks were burning. He marched around to the back of the house to get another can of soda, ignoring his cousins and their good-natured jeers that followed him.

He was smiling as he poked around in the cooler, nearly hidden in the shade behind the house.

He almost jumped out of his skin when he felt a big hand settle on his hip where his shirt was riding up.

“There you are,” Geno said into Sidney’s ear, making him yelp as he spun around.

 “How do you walk to quietly, jeez!” Sidney demanded shrilly, heart still pounding.

Geno made an exaggerated grouchy face. “I’m miss you, don’t see all day, why you hiding?” He huffed, playing it up.

“I wasn’t hiding,” Sidney protested, inordinately pleased that Geno had missed him, as simple as it was.

“You stay with me, now,” Geno decided firmly. At Sidney's uncertain glance back toward the gathering, he tried wheedling. “Need to meet more family, not great with English. Need you, Sid.”

It wasn’t entirely proper, for two people in a match to be so familiar in public prior to the match ceremony itself. Geno was a stranger to nearly all of the people here though, he reminded himself. It wouldn’t be terribly amiss to at least introduce him around a little. He didn’t want anyone thinking Geno was being rude just because he didn’t know the right order to greet people in. Sidney could be his guide, just for the afternoon. Just until the elders and the matchmaker came to an agreement. 

“Okay,” Sidney said anyway.

Geno smiled, pleased, and let a hand rest carefully on Sidney’s lower back. He raised an eyebrow, waiting for some sign from Sidney, apparently. Probably expecting him to shake it off.

This wasn’t the time for any casual touching, especially not with everyone in the community watching them so closely.

Sidney also felt like the night before had been years ago, and he hadn’t had a spare moment alone with Geno all day. It made him feel desperate. Reckless, even.

Before they went to join everyone else again, he wrapped his hand around Geno’s and squeezed. Geno looked down at him and smiled, pressing Sidney’s hand gently back.

“Sidney,” he murmured. He swooped down and pressed a soft kiss to Sidney’s forehead. It was hardly more intimate than a thousand other kisses he had given Sidney, but this one felt different. Deeper.

Sidney’s limbs felt loose as he blinked up at Geno, befuddled.

A corner of Geno’s mouth slid up. “Let’s go,” he prompted, amused.

Shaking himself, Sidney stepped away, and led Geno back to the party, making sure not to draw attention to the sight of them reappearing together. 

He felt the spot on his forehead where Geno’s lips had pressed like a brand for the rest of the afternoon.

 

*

 

It was not an exaggeration to say that the entire community doted on Sidney with almost slavish devotion.

Sidney didn’t seem to notice it, or when he did, his automatic response seemed to be...aggressively deferential humility, if Zhenya was forced to describe it.

Zhenya had gone into this bracing himself for a trip of indeterminate length where he would consistently and aggressively feel like an outsider.

It hadn’t been an inaccurate prediction. It had been three days, and it felt like trying to balance on a bed of sand as it poured over a cliff.

He’d somewhat carelessly assumed that while he wasn’t in the faith now, he had been once, and he’d probably absorbed more foundational knowledge of orthodoxy as a kid than a heathen would. It was a part of his identity, one that he was inordinately protective of. He wasn’t orthodox now, but he came from one of the oldest orthodox families in Russia. That had to count for something.

But it was quickly apparent that considering yourself aligned with a faith was miles removed from living and breathing it immersed in the insular bubble of a practicing community.

Zhenya was mostly fucked, was the thing.

As early as the airport, Zhenya had been on his guard as they piled in a car, Zhenya a row behind Sidney in a careful effort that felt like collusion between Troy and some of the uncles, and people kept asking Zhenya questions so quickly he had no hope of understanding.

“Sorry,” he kept saying, lifting a hand up. “Not understand. Sorry. Sorry.”

It worked with media. Sidney looked over his shoulder just to roll his eyes at Zhenya. Busted. At least Zhenya didn’t claim to not know English. He felt like that would probably set him back a few paces with this crowd.

They barely listened to him anyway, peppering him with small talk and questions until he found it easier to drift, smiling, nodding at intervals. 

Sidney kept looking back at him as a cousin who was thirteen or so and determined to maintain all of Sidney’s focus as he asked him question after question about the season.

Sidney’s adorable little sister was on his other side, yanking at his elbow. “Sidney!” she kept calling when she felt his attention was being unfairly diverted. “Sidney, listen!”

Through it all, he kept glancing back worriedly at Zhenya. Zhenya did his best to project calm. It was surface deep, but Sidney stopped frowning quite so much when he turned back and Zhenya made a face at him, so he figured it was worth it.

He thought they’d be going straight to the Crosby’s, but that turned out to be foolishly naïve. They

When an elder, Zhenya thought she might have been introduced as Sidney’s great-aunt, reached her hand toward his face, he blinked down at her like an idiot. She mumbled something, gesturing with her hand. If it was in English, it wasn’t penetrating his dumb head. He felt a nudge near his knee and looked down at Sidney, who was finally, blessedly by his side again.

“What she want?” he hissed desperately at Sidney.

Sidney rubbed discreetly at his forehead. It clicked. He wanted to kick himself in the head. He’d completely forgotten about the fucking blessing.

“Sorry,” he muttered to Sid. Then to the old lady in front of him. “Sorry, I...nervous. Ha.” He tried to look devoutly chagrinned, and also nervous enough that he would conceivably forget about such a basic orthodox tradition. The second part was pretty easy to pull off. He pulled out his well-worn ‘sorry I’m Russian’ expression.

Luckily the old lady seemed willing to let it go as long as he ducked his head and let her touch him lightly on the forehead. She muttered something.

“Be unto you,” he said in Russian, on a whim, and because he wasn't quite sure how to say it in English.

When he straightened, he looked at Sidney, expecting him to look at least annoyed. The crowd was shifting as people moved to go inside the expansive house before them.

Sidney had a tiny smile on his face. “It’s okay,” he whispered.

Sidney’s mom was holding tight to Taylor with one hand and was ushering the rest of them inside with the other. Sidney pressed closer and grabbed Zhenya’s thumb for a moment, the gesture hidden at their sides in the shifting group.

Zhenya felt someone prod him hard in the middle of his shoulder blades. “Let’s keep it moving,” Troy intoned. He’d been looming over Zhenya’s shoulder for most of the day.

The entire sequence quickly appeared to be the theme for Zhenya’s time in Cole Harbor.

He tried to remember living with his grandparents, how things had been done back then, but it didn’t help. Cole Harbor was an orthodox enclave, but the thing about an insulated community is they all did things a little differently. The best Zhenya could hope was the smile and hope people thought his idiocy was mostly cultural and potentially charming.

It was a mixed bag.

Not least of which because for the first few days, Sidney was mostly absent. It felt like every time Zhenya turned to look for him, he was either ensconced in some deep discussion with a different configuration of family members, or the adults made an effort to keep them separated, or at the very least heavily chaperoned. Most of the time that meant being surrounded by a changeable hoard of Sidney’s bickering cousins, who talked too fast for Zhenya to understand and seemed to take pleasure in mocking him, but he tried not to take that personally.

They gave Sidney endless shit, far more than Zhenya, and it mostly felt like familiar chirping. If anything, he took it as them making an effort to include him, which was probably significant for such a close-knit group. The unmarried ones stuck together especially tightly; it did not escape Zhenya’s notice that Sidney was amongst the oldest of his unmarried cousins. It seemed to make the rest of them protective of him, just like everything else.

Which was nice and all, but mostly added up to being surrounded by a constantly buzzing swarm of people. Zhenya was from a small family, and he was used to it just being his parents and Denis at home. They didn’t visit the full family much, not in years. What he did remember of those visits was the inescapable presence of others.

Cole Harbor was a lot like that. Nearly every activity or situation was filled with at least twenty people. You couldn’t go from the kitchen to the dining room or out onto the porch without shouldering past a half a dozen of Sidney’s relatives. People were always touching, not overtly, nothing immodest, just the natural consequence of so many people clustered together like no one had a normal sense of personal space.

After watching Sidney so carefully hold himself apart from everyone all season, always stepping back and away, maintaining distance if he wasn’t in his pads, the shift was enthralling to witness. 

They trained in the mornings and afternoons under the watchful eye of Troy Crosby and a few uncles who had a lot of opinions about proper lifting form. One of them, Randy, had apparently gotten his degree to train Sidney officially (no one else seemed to think it was weird that Randy had built his entire career around Sidney, presumably because it was _Sidney_ , and Zhenya didn't feel comfortable enough to comment on it) so he was mostly in charge, and Zhenya appreciated someone who could push them to bulk up in the offseason. 

Also, it was nice to be able to discreetly ogle Sidney, especially when if they weren’t training, Sidney was off taking care of media engagements or community commitments and Zhenya spent most of his time sitting with the cousins, listening as they made fun of each other good-naturedly.

They were nice, but he missed Sidney, and the more time stretched, the more he wondered what he was doing here.

It was becoming clear that their match was far from a sure thing.

There was a lot of behind-the-scenes chatter if the tight expression Sidney’s aunt Lyanne’s face was any indication.

Zhenya wasn’t necessarily surprised. He knew decisions like this usually demanded a lot of performative back-and-forth in orthodox communities, or at least it did in his. Elders chiming in, parents and relatives making their opinions known, nearly everyone contributing some judgment, especially or potential matches from outside the community.

It didn’t mean it wasn’t making him nervous every day that passed without a date for the match ceremony being set.

He tried to stay busy, squared away some things with Brisson, talked to his agent in Russia and tied up a few endorsement deals he wouldn’t be able to officially take advantage of until he was in the country, but it felt good to finalize nonetheless. 

There were a lot of questions on what in the world he was doing with Sidney, from his friends at home, and his agent. He dodged them, knowing he wouldn’t be able to do so for long.

Thirteen days later, he hadn’t been able to get Sid alone since that stolen moment at the barbecue on the first day. They came back from training to some big family dinner to celebrate...something, Zhenya wasn’t sure, there were so many family dinners they were all blending together.

Sidney was already commandeered before they were through the door and Zhenya had to breathe slow and deep in and out through his nose not to grab his arm and yank him back, haul him over his shoulder and stalk away somewhere where they could just be alone, finally. Just the two of them.

He watched Sidney being led to the kitchen and wished, fervently, that of all the rules the orthodox saw fit to live by, they hadn’t decided to also ban liquor. He wanted a beer worse than anything. 

Instead, he took an iced tea from a giggling young cousin and sat on the edge of a chair, blissfully alone as the rest of the family shuffled around, chatting, eating snacks.

It didn’t last long enough. He watched warily as a few of Sidney’s uncles, including one guy Zhenya just really didn’t like right off the bat named Frank, sidled over. 

Zhenya grunted in greeting. The men nodded. Frank was eyeing him expectantly.

“Having a good time?” Frank asked, grinning. He was only a few years older than Zhenya but he had a mustache like a fucking tool and he was too young for Zhenya to think of as an uncle of Sid’s, let alone an elder.

Zhenya tried to look unfriendly and Russian. “Yes. Very good.”

Frank chuckled. “ _Yes, very good_ ,” he repeated, doing a poor imitation of Zhenya’s accent. Zhenya raised his eyebrows, nonplussed. What a prick. “So, this match business. Do you really think you’re ready to take on Sidney?”

The creeping frustration of the last few days that had been building with nowhere to go began to bubble up again, yearning for a direction. Frank was that direction.

“What you saying?”

Frank made a face and elbowed one of the other uncles, who to his credit looked uncomfortable. For the most part, the rest of Sidney’s family and the community had been pretty understanding about the language barrier. Not so, Frank, apparently.

“I’m just saying, he needs a strong hand. You have a strong hand, Zhenya?” He was leering a bit, and Zhenya honestly couldn’t tell if he was hitting on Zhenya or mocking Sidney or a little bit of both.

He felt Sidney brush against his elbow before he turned and saw him. 

“You okay?” he said in a low voice. He glanced at Frank and the uncles warily. “You had a face.”

“No face. I’m fine.” He didn’t need Sidney to rescue him. He didn’t take his arm away from where it was lightly touching Sidney, though. 

Frank held his hands up. “We were just talking. Getting to know him. No crime there, if he ends up being a part of this community. Which is a big _if_.”

“Knock it off, Frank,” Sidney said irritably.

“Respect your elders,” Frank shot back, grinning. It was possibly the least friendly anyone had been to Sid since they’d come to Cole Harbor. It was a little jarring.

“Let’s get some more barbecue, eh?” one of the other, less dickish, uncles said, pulling at Frank.

Zhenya stared him down. He wanted nothing more than to beat the shit out of this guy, which was what he would have done if they’d been on the ice and he was a pest to Sid there. The rules were different here.

“Bathroom?” he asked Sid abruptly.

Sidney pointed down the hall, uncertain.

It was slightly less satisfying to knock a shoulder hard into Frank as he passed, sending him careening into the edge of the wall with a yelp as Zhenya shouldered past him, but it was better than nothing.

“Geno,” Sidney exclaimed, shocked, but Zhenya was too wound up to linger behind to soothe him. 

“Sorry,” he said serenely to Frank instead and continued on to the bathroom. 

But by the time he washed his hands, he’d lost most of his steam. He was worn out, stretched thin from the uncertainty, and the last thing he needed was to let a single asshole relative (aside from Sidney’s dad, but in a way, Zhenya respected him for that) get to him. He sighed, resolving to do better.

He stepped into the hallway and was surprised to see Sidney sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, waiting for him.

Zhenya stuttered to a stop. “Sid.”

“I’m really sorry about all this,” he said softly. He kicked his feet back and forth, staring at his loafers.

If someone found them alone here, there’d probably be hell to pay, but Zhenya was ready for the chance. He walked over and slid down next to him. 

“Why sorry? Just family. Not your fault.”

“I’m sorry this is taking so long.”

 Zhenya sighed and knocked his knee against Sidney’s. “Stop apologize. Not your fault. No sorry.”

But Sidney pressed on, aggrieved. “The matchmaker, she’s meeting with my parents, and some of the elders—it’s a little, um. Tense. Apparently.”

Sidney was still looking guiltily at his shoes. Like he was keeping Zhenya from some big and important plans elsewhere. Sure, he was sorry not to be in Russia with his family and friends, but he’d committed to this. Some procedural delay wasn’t going to scare him away. 

“Sid. I’m not—I’m stay here. I’m here. Not leaving.” He looked quickly over his shoulder and, seeing the coast clear for once, clasped Sid’s shoulder.

Sidney was quiet. Then, “Why did you do it?” He let his hands fall palm up in his lap. “I still don’t understand. Why did you—you didn’t have to.” 

Past the hallway, the sounds of Sidney’s family laughing and arguing felt very far away. They probably wouldn’t be alone for long, they were in front of the bathroom for the love of the gods, but for now, they were finally, happily alone.

He didn’t want to squander this chance, in case he never got another one.

“I’m not believe in gods,” he said, keeping his voice especially low for that little admission that was for no one’s ears but Sidney, “but since I’m on ice with you, for first time, I feel—something. Something big. Feel like I'm believe in _that_.”

Sidney hummed thoughtfully. Zhenya wondered if he remembered that first game together like Zhenya did; it wasn’t Sidney’s first NHL game, so maybe it wasn’t the same mix of adrenaline and nausea and exhilaration. 

“And that night, you say, ‘we match, Geno,’ and I’m argue at first, but when your mama come out—I felt it again. That thing. That big thing.”

Geno ducked his head, wincing at his clumsy words. Well, he would never be a poet in English, apparently.

“But, if this works out, if my family gives their blessing—you’ll have to be observant. You’ll have to pretend to be orthodox. The media, the rest of the team, they’ll treat you different.” _Like they treat me,_ Sidney seemed to be saying. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging in exasperation. “How can this be worth that? How can you know you want this?” 

Zhenya couldn’t help but smile crookedly at that one. Of all the questions, that was the easiest one. 

As Sidney let his hands drop again, Zhenya grabbed one. He looked at it, then at Sidney, who was watching him, chewing at his lip. With his free hand, Zhenya reached over thumb Sidney’s bottom lip free. “I know. It’s you.”

Something on Sidney’s face seemed to settle into resoluteness.

All at once he scrambled to his feet and tugged Zhenya up after him. Bemused, Zhenya allowed it. Sidney looked up at Zhenya urgently, his color high. “Come on,” he said, and tugged him down the hall and around a bend and dragged them both into a closet.

Zhenya followed, not an idiot and not willing to waste a stolen moment if Sidney was into it. They barely fit in the closet, knocking over a broom, but Zhenya was happy to crowd in on him. Take him by both shoulders. Ignore the cleaning supplies stacked in neat rows at his feet. 

It was the first time they’d been alone together in nearly two weeks and Zhenya was no longer surprised by how hungry he was to touch Sidney, to feel something as chaste as his hands clasped in both of Zhenya’s.

“Geno,” Sidney breathed. He kept moving forward until his face was pressed into Zhenya’s chest, both sets of hands trapped between them.

“This crazy,” Zhenya was muttering into Sidney’s hair, “crazy how much I miss you, how I miss you this much?” They’d seen each other just that morning. They’d exchanged texts all day. And yet Zhenya still felt like if he didn’t wrap both arms around Sidney and squeeze very tightly he was going to go crazy.

He felt Sidney’s hands run up and own his sides lightly, making him shiver.

“Just a little,” Sidney pleaded, pressing soft, wet kisses to Zhenya’s mouth. “Please, I’ve missed this, so much.”

“You sure?” Zhenya checked on a whisper. He was so tired of being the one to pull back, every time. Even as he spoke he let his hands trail down Sidney’s back, cupping his hips.

“We’re going to be matched, after all,” Sidney said. Demanded, really, when Zhenya didn't act fast enough. Gods, what a brat, Zhenya really shouldn’t be so delighted by how pushy he was being.

“But, parents...” Zhenya protested weakly, silently begging, _change my mind_.

His heart was hurtling and Sidney was shaking his arms, working himself closer and closer until they were pressed together so tight, and he could feel Sidney’s dick hard on his hip.

“Just a little,” Sidney said softly. “Unless you don’t...I mean, maybe you don’t want, I get it. I know this isn’t what you planned.”

Zhenya spun him around to face the wall, a tight squeeze in the closet but they managed, loving the way Sidney gasped and didn’t fight it, just let Zhenya move him where he wanted him. He took both of Sidney’s hands and put them on the wall, holding them tight for a moment.

When he was sure Sidney would keep them there, he dragged his palms down Sidney’s sides, feeling the way his belly jerked at the touch, using his hold to pull Sidney firmly back against him.

Tentatively, Sidney rolled his hips back.

He pressed his face into Sidney’s neck, biting gently, and used the little room they had to take Sidney's ass in both hands, kneading with relish.

“Your _ass_ , Sid,” he groaned.

He was hard without really noticing that he’d gotten that way, and he suddenly had to press his cock into that ass, huge and heavy and so gorgeous it was agonizing.

He set up a rhythm, thrusting as Sidney pushed back, hesitantly at first but gaining confidence as they went, neither ever separating enough for it to be more than a slow, mesmerizing grind.

Breath coming fast, Zhenya wrapped his arms around Sidney's waist and squeezed him tight, pressing them together hard, almost too hard. Sidney moaned, one hand coming down from the wall so he could wedge it down his pants, struggling with the zipper.

“No, I’m do,” Zhenya insisted, swatting his hand away. He bit and licked at the back of Sidney’s neck, smirking every time he made a sound.

His hands were shaking as he took Sidney out of his pants, wrapping both hands around his smooth cock, thick and blood-hot and so smooth in Zhenya’s hand. He circled his thumb around the head.

“Ah,” Sidney bit out, jerking.

“Love you like this,” Zhenya murmured in Russian, pleased. “So pretty, do you know that?”

“ _Geno_.” Sidney was squirming in Zhenya’s hold, not really trying to escape but unable to stay completely still.

Zhenya shushed him, disingenuously really, because he wanted Sidney to make noise. He couldn’t stop sucking at the spot at the top of the nape of Sidney’s neck. He tasted so good.

But Sidney dislodged him when he let his head fall back onto Zhenya’s shoulder, cheek pressing into Zhenya’s jaw, mouthing the thin skin there as his hips jerked roughly back into Zhenya’s.

“Geno,” he murmured, “Geno, feels so _good_.” He sounded mindless with it.

He had one hand dipping to cup Sidney’s balls, the other still just wrapped softly around his cock, gently jerking him off and drinking in the way even that light touch was enough to drive him crazy—and hazily, Zhenya was hit with the delirious thought that if the match was approved, he would have this every day for the rest of his life, as long as he didn’t do anything stupid or Sidney wasn’t made at him, probably.

“Sid, can’t wait to match with you,” he blurted. He had no idea where it came from. It just popped out, like a secret, unaware he was even thinking it, but it was true, it was so true.

It made Sidney’s whole body stiffen against Zhenya, his cock jerk in Zhenya’s hand. “ _Ah_ , Geno. _Gods_.” He was curling in on himself, like he was ready to go off at any moment. Zhenya’s cock was aching but he barely noticed, entirely focused on Sidney in his arms. 

“Come on, do it,” Zhenya urged. He dragged his mouth along the side of Sidney’s neck in a messy kiss. “Come, baby. Want to see.”

Sidney’s gasping mouth parted and he let out a heavy, needy cry.

There was a sharp knock on the door. A woman’s stern voice said, “Sidney.”

They both jerked to a stop like they’d been clotheslined while standing still.

Zhenya didn’t think it was possible to be so hard and so close to coming and also so horrified at the implications of a simple knock.

Instinctively, Zhenya turned them so he was between Sidney and the door, turning him around so he could cup the back of Sidney’s head to his chest. Sidney seemed nonverbal, burying his face into Zhenya’s neck. He was trembling. Zhenya wasn’t too steady himself.

“Sidney. Eugene.” It was Lyanne, Zhenya could tell now, which he wasn’t sure was better or worse. At least it wasn't Sidney's mom again. “Can you join me out here?”

Zhenya had to clear his throat before he could speak. His voice was wrecked. “Need minute.”

Lyanne snorted. “Nice try. _Now_.”

Without much of a choice, Zhenya pulled back enough to look Sidney over. He met Zhenya’s eyes, skin flushed, dazed. “You okay?” Zhenya whispered. Sidney looked drunk. There was no way he could go back to his family like this.

Sidney nodded. “Yes. I’m fine." 

Zhenya smoothed his hair down worriedly, curls wild from being manhandled. “You sure?” He dropped a kiss onto Sid’s parted lips. He couldn’t help it. “You okay?”

Finally, Sidney’s mouth twitched. “I’m fine, Geno, jeez. You're not that mind blowing.”

Zhenya made an outraged face. "I'm best."

Sidney raised his eyebrows. “Are _you_ okay?”

Zhenya huffed. “No, Sid, am not okay!” he admitted in a furious whisper, playing it up as Sidney started to smile at his antics. “In closet, want to keep touching you, aunt outside—nothing about this okay, Sidney.”

Sidney was chuckling, albeit weakly, now. He reached down to zip up his pants, the sound torturously loud in the closet. Zhenya was sure Lyanne heard and knew exactly what it was. 

Sidney was still a mess, his mouth swollen, but there wasn’t much choice. Zhenya led the way out of the closet.

Lyanne was standing with her arms crossed.

“You couldn’t have waited one more day?” she demanded testily. 

At his side, Sidney froze. “What do you mean?”

Lyanne uncrossed her arms and declared without fanfare, “The matchmaker has given her approval.” She turned to Zhenya. “They spoke with your grandmother.”

Zhenya tried not to look too shocked. He’d given them her name but he hadn’t known they were actively contacting her. He resisted asking if she had asked about him, or if she sounded mad at him. He wasn’t a child. 

Lyanne, watching Zhenya, said gently, “She gave her blessing.” 

“What?” Zhenya felt like his ears were ringing. “She did? What?”

But Lyanne didn't seem in the mood to give away more details. “Go upstairs and wash up, both of you. _Separately_ ,” she hastened to add. Eyes softening, she touched Sidney’s cheek gently. “Your parents need to talk with you.” She wasn’t smiling, but she didn’t sound like she was bestowing bad news.

Sidney turned to Zhenya and looked ready to tackle him into a hug, and frankly Zhenya wouldn’t have put up much of a fight, but Lyanne flicked him on the elbow. 

“Go. Now. My goodness, you boys are lucky it was me and not an aunt or an uncle. _Frank_ , even.”

Zhenya was vaguely pleased to hear no one really liked Frank.

Sufficiently chastened, Sidney turned and hurried for the stairs. Zhenya watched him go, shock and a strange veil of unreality settling over him. 

It was really happening. And soon by the sound of it.

Beside him, Lyanne shook her head. “Do you know the lengths we went to in order to try and find that boy a match?”

Zhenya nodded, because yeah, he had some idea. 

She was still shaking her head. “None of this is tradition. None of this is a good omen.”

She leaned against the wall, studying him. She looked exhausted, worry lines deep around her eyes. 

“I hope you are worthy of him.”

“Me, too,” Zhenya replied, not quite intentionally.

But Lyanne looked, if not pleased, then at least resigned. “Well. It’s a start.”

 

*

 

Sidney had seen plenty of nonorthodox weddings before, in movies and on TV, and even once in person, when an assistant coach from the OHL had invited him and his mom a few years ago.

There was always a lot of ceremony involved, more than nonbelievers tended to exhibit in most other aspects of their society. They were long, drawn-out affairs, with countless rituals involved, costumes, everyone with elaborate roles to play. 

Orthodox match ceremonies were nothing like that.

The matchmaking was the biggest part of it all, and required the most time and attention. Once the match was approved, it was generally accepted as tempting bad luck and defying the gods to delay.

It had always seemed normal to Sidney growing up and he hadn't given the ceremony much thought, until it was happening to him, today, and then he found himself wishing there was a little more fanfare involved, just to give him and Geno a chance to breathe.

As it was, Sidney met with his parents and the matchmaker and a few members of the elder council the next morning, and it was official. When it was all done, he barely recalled what was said. He remembered his parents asking him if he was sure. And when Sidney nodded his head eagerly, he remembered his great-aunt Bethel chuckling.

“I remember how anxious I was for my match,” she said fondly. Her wizened face crinkled as she smiled at him. “Be with the gods, Sidney." And the match as approved.

His dad walked him out. “Do you honestly believe, on the honor of this community, that this match is the will of the gods?” he asked through his teeth.

The house was unusually silent. Most of the family was probably preparing for the match ceremony, or at least the feast afterward. 

Geno was in the guest room, talking to his parents. It didn’t seem fair that Sidney would have so much family at their match ceremony, and Geno would have no one. But it was clear that no matter his grandmother's opinion, Geno's parents did not approve of the match. And even if Sidney had been able to get his own family to delay, it didn't seem like Geno's mom or dad would be willing to attend the ceremony.

“I believe the gods brought me here, yes,” Sidney said to his father. Whether it was actually their will was the gods' business, but everything about matching with Geno felt like part of something bigger, like Geno had said. 

His dad didn’t look happy, but he seemed to accept that arguing further was futile.

The match ceremony that night was short, as was the tradition. Sidney and Geno were in their game day suits, which they had both packed to bring in a fit of foresight.

Sidney’s mom and Taylor and Lyanne stood at the front, his dad in the middle of the aisle. Andrea and a few of the cousins watched, but for the most part it was a private occasion, a true rarity within an orthodox community. 

As was traditional, Sidney’s parents were tasked with performing the ceremony, although Sidney’s dad did the honors. His mom was watching worriedly but she didn’t interfere.

Taylor was swirling around in her nice dress, the one she usually only wore to worship. She didn't seem to care much about the proceedings, although she did gaze up at Geno and then Sidney in abject curiosity.

Sidney and Geno walked side by side up to front of the room and stood before Sidney’s dad.

There was a long, heavy silence, and Sidney thought for a second his dad had gone rogue and was refusing to perform the ceremony. 

But then— 

“Sidney, are you prepared in mind, body and soul to match?” he droned stiffly.

“I am,” Sidney replied, trying not to sound too breathless. It was actually happening.

“Sidney, are you prepared to honor the orthodox gods and their many blessings in this match?”

“I am.”

His dad turned to Geno, reluctantly.

“Evgeni,” he began, and Sidney bit back a bubble of manic laughter at the wobbly pronunciation. “Are you prepared in mind, body and soul to match?”

“I am,” Geno said in a low voice. It sent a shiver over Sidney’s skin. 

“Evgeni, are you prepared to honor the orthodox gods and their many blessings in this match?”

“I am.”

His dad inhaled audibly. He gave Sid one last stern, unhappy look, and said, “The match is made, and with consummation, will be recognized by the gods.”

No one else twitched at the mention of consummation, so Sidney did his best to be an adult and not turn red. He was matched, after all. He glanced at Geno out of the corner of his eye, speechless. They were matched. 

Geno was looking at him, equally wide-eyed. 

His mom stepped forward with Lyanne. “You’ll be using your old bedroom, Sidney.”

It took a beat, but then Sidney blinked. Of course.

Consummation was in many ways more important than the ceremony itself. It was the part that people in the community rarely talked about other than in whispers.

Sid and Geno followed Sid’s mom and Lyanne out of the room, the eyes of the witnesses heavy on the back of his neck. They made a slow procession upstairs, the early evening sun just starting to set.

When they stopped in front of the room Sidney had slept most of his childhood in, Lyanne turned to them. “Wait here.”

She and Sidney’s mom slipped inside the room and closed the door behind them to prepare the match bed, which had never seemed quite as embarrassing a phrase as it was in actual practice.

Sid and Geno waited uncomfortably outside of the room, the soft shuffling of Lyanne and his mom putting the final touches on the match bed clear as a bell in the quiet hallway and absolutely mortifying in their insinuations.

His mom and aunt knew what he and Geno were about to do. Gods have mercy on him.

“Was the ceremony weird for you?” Sidney asked quietly, for something to break the silence but also because he was still wondering. Geno hadn’t hesitated, so if he had any misgiving about swearing an oath to honor the orthodox gods, it hadn’t shown.

“A little. Made me think of home, when I’m little. When we live with grandmother.” Geno leaned into Sidney slightly. “Still not believe she give us blessing.”

Sidney swallowed. He let his hand settle delicately on Geno’s wrist. “I can tell my family you’re not orthodox,” he offered, even though it was like clawing the words out. He could only imagine what his parents' reactions would be.

He should have been clearer in the beginning, but now it was just this weird lie spiraling out of control, and the last thing he wanted was to force Geno to embody this elaborate lie just to be with Sidney. “I can tell them. We’re matched now, it probably won’t matter.” He wasn’t sure, really. He’d never heard of an orthodox match revealing after the ceremony that one-half was never orthodox in the first place. Probably it would be okay, though. 

But Geno was shaking his head. “I don’t want to tell them, if it means I can’t still have you,” he said quietly. 

Sidney’s chest ached. “Geno.”

At that moment the door opened, and Lyanne and his mom came back out.

His mom kissed him on the forehead. “Be with the gods,” she blessed him. Her voice was hoarse. 

“And unto you,” Sidney promised.

Lyanne touched her hand to Geno’s head in a similar blessing. “Be good to him,” she said. “Under the gods, swear it.” 

“I swear,” Geno said solemnly.

And with that, they were entering Sidney’s childhood bedroom to consummate their match. Sidney couldn’t stop wondering at it. This was really real. He got to keep _Geno_. 

They sat on the narrow bed together. Geno dropped a big hand on Sidney’s knee, and the casual weight stopped him from twitching too much.

“How you want to do it?” Geno asked.

Sidney blanched. “Um.” He was hoping Geno would take the lead on this one. “However you want?” 

“No, asking—you want to fuck? Jerk off? Do what we do in bathroom?”

Sidney’s ears were burning at his frankness. “ _Geno_.”

Geno’s mouth lifted in a half-smile. “What? Need to be able to talk about it.”

“We have to do it the right way,” Sidney insisted. He couldn’t quite make himself blurt it out like Geno had. 

Geno’s smile was rueful now. “It not always have to be...” He made a gesture with both of his big hands that made Sidney color even more.

“Oh. Um. Penetration.” That was not a fun word to say.

“Yes, that. We do—we can do whatever we want. No one here but us. Our choice.”

Well, except for the gods, technically, although Sidney didn’t really feel like bringing them into it.

There was a small pile of items on the bedside table that Sidney had avoided looking at until now because it was too embarrassing. Geno was not so reticent. 

He picked up a white tube of what Sidney knew must be lube and clucked thoughtfully. “This okay, but brand at home better.” He rifled through the small pile of towels, the lube, then frowned. “No condoms?” 

“I can’t get, um. Pregnant. Neither can you.” Sid was puzzled. “We don’t have to use one.” 

Geno caught his face in both hands, peering at him earnestly. “Why not? It safer, really.” 

Of all the conversations Sidney had ever envisioned having on his match night— “But we’re matched, it doesn’t matter.” 

That seemed to alarm Geno. “Sidney, just because match...you need to take care. You never know.” His thumbs were stroking softly on both of Sidney’s cheeks. It was hard to focus. “Can’t always trust other person.”

“But there’s no other person, now. Just you.”

Geno’s face went soft. “Yes, Sid. Just me.” He pressed a light kiss to Sidney’s nose, then both cheeks above where his thumbs were rubbing his skin, on his forehead, his chin, brushing contacts that were making Sidney shiver. His eyes fluttered shut.

“And we just got our last health screening for the league a month ago. I figured if you had something...” Gods, he didn’t want to think about that, because it meant that sometime in the interim he’d been pulling people on the side, and Sidney didn’t think that was what happened, but now that it was in his head it was unbearable to imagine. 

It must have shown on his face. Geno leaned down and took Sidney’s mouth in a searching, thorough kiss, tongue slipping in gently to tangle with Sidney’s. He couldn’t help but moan. Geno pulled back just an inch, smiling as Sidney chased after him to kiss him again. When they broke apart, Geno pressed their foreheads together. “No one else for months, Sid. And I’m clean. But I can show tests.”

“I trust you.”

Slowly, Geno eased him onto his back on the bed. “Okay. We try bare, this time. See if you like.” He kissed Sidney gently, sucking on his lips until Sidney relaxed. “How you want? You want to do me?” 

Sidney shook his head. “No. Please. Can you just—I don’t know what I’m doing.” If this was hockey, or anything even tangentially related to hockey, Sidney would be ready to dive right in. But he felt completely at sea, and the last thing he wanted was to be in charge of anything right now.

Geno didn't see in a special hurry, though. He ran his hands up and over Sidney's chest and arms, easing him out of his jacket and tossing it on the floor, unbuttoning his shirt, stripping him naked and touching him all over until Sidney was straining for it.

"Geno," he whined, "you, too." He plucked at his shirt.

When he pulled away, Sidney could see Geno's lips were red, his eyes heavy-lidded. He yanked his own clothes off until he was just in his boxers. Sidney couldn't stop staring at him. He swallowed, throat dry. "Hurry." He didn't know why it felt important to hurry. Geno, for his part refused to be rushed.

He kept kissing Sidney, and then he was dragging his mouth along his pecks and arms, biting lightly into the muscles until Sidney arched his back, moaning. He sucked a mark on the inside of Sidney's knee, he ghosted his breath over Sidney's cock where it strained against his stomach, he groped a this ass until Sidney was rocking up into the air, seeking real contact—until by the time Geno was kicking off his boxers to settle in between Sidney's knees, he was so out of his mind he barely had the presence of mind to feel embarrassed at how exposed he was.

Geno kissed the inside of his knee anyway, over the mark, making Sidney jerk. "You look good," he promised. "So good.

The first touch of a slick finger to Sidney's hole made him jerk. "So good, doing so good," Geno whispered. He pressed inside and Sidney forced himself to exhale, relaxing his muscles. If there was one thing he could contribute, it was his iron control over his own body.

But as Geno worked up to sliding a finger in and out, Sidney didn't feel quite so in control. He tossed his head on the pillow, restless, the feeling still too unfamiliar to be truly _good_ , not yet, but he couldn't stop rocking his hips toward it anyway.

"Another?" Geno's voice was so hoarse it took a second for Sidney to understand him. He nodded unsteadily.

The slick, thick feel of Geno's fingers inside him, stretching him, it went from feeling weird to feeling hot and so, so good as soon as Geno took the head of Sidney's cock gently into his mouth.

He felt Geno shift the fingers inside, crooked them somehow, and his whole spine lit up like lightning.

"Geno!" he cried, uncaring of the sound, just wanting him to do that again.

Abruptly, Geno pulled his fingers out, leaving Sidney gasping at the sudden emptiness. "Sorry, sorry," Geno said soothingly, rubbing his hip. "Didn't mean—just, I'm not last much longer."

Sidney blinked his eyes open, and took in the flushed splotches on Geno's chest, his hard, enormous cock bobbing as he sat back. He looked ready to come apart at the seams. Sidney couldnt help but relish the tendril of heady power he felt in response.

"I think you go on top," Geno offered unsteadily. "Might be better."

Sidney clearly had no preference, but if it was what Geno wanted, he was willing to give it a try. Geno shifted so he was on his back as Sidney gently clambered on top, Geno steadying him with his hands on his waist and the worshipful look in his eyes.

He reached to push the hair gently back from Sidney's face. "Slow," he cautioned unsteadily. "Slowly, Sid."

He held his cock by the base, other hand helping Sidney steady himself on his knees. The blunt pressure against Sidney's hole was overwhelming. He grunted, rocking forward in reaction. Geno hummed soothingly, pressing it back in. Taking a deep breath, Sidney reached back to grab it too, tangling with Geno's fingers, positioned it more directly, rose high on his knees, and started to take it inside.

HIs mouth opened in a wide 'O' as he slid slowly, so slowly, down the length of Geno's cock. 

It was an incredible stretch. Geno looked huge, but he felt even bigger, tugging at Sidney's rim as he entered, filling him up until Sidney was gasping to catch his breath. 

Geno rubbed his hips. "Sid, you okay? Too much?"

Sidney tried to make a shushing sound but it mostly came out as a slurred sigh. "Just wait." He shifted experimentally. Geno was everywhere it felt like, anchoring him but also threatening to pull him apart, but as he settled in, it spread and diluted into a low ache that radiated from his ass out to his legs and arms, not painful so much, just _there_ , unavoidable and overwhelming.

He groped for Sidney's hands at his hips and tangled their fingers together. He understood the mechanics but faced with an actual practical demonstration, he needed guidance.

He rocked fitfully on Geno's cock, too wary to try rising off it just yet, liking the way he could get it to rub just right inside of him. 

Geno was staring up at him with wide, dark eyes. He was watching where his cock was driving in and out of Sidney, squeezing Sidney's hands, dragging his gaze back to Sidney's face. His entire face was pink. His chest was jerking with each breath. His hips were rocking up, matching Sidney's pace, but he wasn't pushing, content to let Sidney lead. But that wasn't what Sidney wanted, he needed _more_ , he just...couldn't _get_ there, yet.

"Geno," he said, voice tight. He was rocking harder now. Gods, it felt good. It was feeling so good now. "Geno, _please_."

Geno sat up, yanking Sidney closer by his hips. The change in angle made Sidney’s back bow, almost too much at first, the sensation overwhelming. 

“You okay?” Geno demanded, stilling. “Hurt?”

“It’s fine,” Sidney slurred. He caught Geno’s mouth in a messy kiss, licking inside. “Move, go. Please.” 

One hand anchored tight on Sidney’s knee, Geno wrapped his other long arm around his waist and used it to lever Sidney up, then down had onto his cock.  
  
They groaned together at the first thrust. 

“Oh, Geno, oh, Geno,” Sidney couldn’t stop repeating, voice rising on a wail.

Geno grabbed hold of Sidney’s cock where it was rubbing against Sidney’s belly with not nearly enough friction and Sidney only got louder. Geno set a steady pace, twisting his wrist as he jerk his hot fist up and down Sidney’s cock.

“That good, Sid?” Geno demanded through gritted teeth. Sweat was dripping off his face. Sidney wanted to lick it off him. “That feel good, baby?”

“Yes, yes, it does, yes, please,” Sidney chanted, mindlessly afraid that Geno would take his hand away, or stop driving his cock into Sidney just right, with that same steady rhythm before Sidney could reach the peak that felt just beyond his grasp.

He was making so much noise, crying out with each movement, he was sure the whole house could hear, everyone would know what they were doing—but he couldn’t bear the thought of stopping.

Geno was staring at him, he saw, tracking Sidney’s every twitch. Sidney blinked and they locked eyes, panting and wide-eyed and mouths both dropped open.

“Sid,” Geno whispered hoarsely, still stripping Sidney’s cock with brutal efficiency. He kept glancing at Sidney’s face, then down to where Sidney was hitching desperately into Geno’s hand and back onto his cock, then back to Sidney’s face again, like he couldn’t tear his gaze from Sidney’s gaze for long.

It was suddenly too much. Sidney pitched forward, trapping Geno’s hand between them as he wrapped both arms around Geno’s neck, crossing his ankles at the small of his back, needing to hold him as tight as he possibly could. It didn’t give him a lot of room to move so he focused on grinding in, circling his hips so Geno’s cock rubbed just right against him on the inside.

“Close,” Sidney babbled. “So close.”

Geno gasped and bit at the hinge of Sidney’s jaw. “Sid,” he groaned. “Fuck, _Sidney_.”

He sped up his fist on Sidney’s cock and drove his own cock up, hard, one more time.

Sidney came apart, coming in a brutal wave that made him lock up stiff, and then go limp, come pulsing out onto Geno’s hands and belly.

“Sidney,” he said again. Like he was marveling.

Sidney blinked and opened his eyes, no longer as intent on hiding his face or holding Geno in a near-stranglehold. Geno was watching him, red-faced.

“Go ahead,” Sidney encouraged him, languidly.

Geno swallowed. It looked like it was taking a lot to stay still. “It’s okay? Not too much?”

Sidney shifted considering, liking the way Geno stiffened beneath him. “Yeah, I’m okay.” He clenched weakly, and when Geno swore, he put his hand to his cheek. “Go for it.”

This time it was Geno who pulled Sidney close, driving his hips up frantically in an uneven rhythm that got faster and more out of control until Sidney was starting to feel oversensitive. Just before he would have had to reluctantly tell Geno to pull out, even though he loved feeling Geno fall apart in his arms, Geno went stiff and groaned loudly in Sidney’s ear, hot, wet pulses filling Sidney up.

He was surprised to find he liked the sensation, at least for now.

Geno fell back on the bed and pulled Sidney down with him.

“Need to clean up,” Sidney argued, but Geno held him back. “I got it,” Geno promised and heaved himself out of bed to go to the basin on the side table.

Being gently cleaned up while Geno watched him with those same gentle, hot eyes left Sidney hot and restless, but not necessarily in a bad way. He squirmed closer, cock soft but his body interested despite it. But once Geno finished and tossed the towel away, he went limp on the bed, exhaling loudly.

Sidney twisted around a bit, trying to get comfortable. He was tired, but his mind was also whirling around at an unpleasant pace.

He was part of a match. A consummated match. It didn’t feel quite real yet.

“Quiet, Sidney.” Geno sounded half asleep already. “Think too loud.” He threw an arm and a leg over Sidney and reeled him in closer, like any distance was too far. It was too stuffy in the room to cuddle but the feel of Geno’s hot body pressed to his was somehow soothing. Even more so the way he pressed his lips to Sidney’s hair and traced a hand up and down his arm.

He sighed, the breath ruffling Sidney's hair gently. “It okay for you?” Geno sounded tentative. It had never entered Sidney's head that Geno might be nervous, or at least as nervous as Sidney was.

He'd never liked it when Geno was uncertain or upset, but now he found the idea of Geno as his match feeling unsure of Sidney’s feelings completely intolerable.

He wrapped his hand around Geno’s forearm. “It was more than okay.” Sidney felt Geno smile. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

Geno chuckled and kissed his hair again. “I’ll try,” he murmured. And just as he seemed to be falling asleep, he managed to mumble out, “Good night, my match.”

Sidney stared at the ceiling, Geno’s words ringing in his head. It sounded like something Sidney’s parents might say to each other. It made it all so real.

Gods, he was matched now. He closed his eyes, a silent prayer and a preemptive request for forgiveness for the prayer, which was: _Please, don’t let me fuck this up._

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for all your comments and kudos and tumblr messages. I really just am struck again by how much I love fandom, and the community on the ao3. you're just the best. lobe you all.
> 
> fyi: I am on vacation next week, so although I will be working on the fifth (and I think final) chapter this weekend, there may be a delay in posting until I get back. I'll try to keep you updated on status on tumblr: ohjafeeljadefinitely.tumblr.com.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fucking finally, am I right?

*

 

The morning after the match, Zhenya woke slowly, a hot heavy weight firmly wedged against his side, pinning down an arm.

Blearily, Zhenya turned to look down at the dark head tucked up against his armpit, curly hair tickling. Slowly, still unbelieving, he brought his free arm up to pet cautiously at the curls, surprisingly coarse, fluffy and unruly under his hand.

Sidney didn’t stir, still breathing heavily in sleep. He must be exhausted, Zhenya realized. What a marathon the day before had been. His own eyes were heavy, but now that he was awake, and touching Sidney, he couldn't bring himself to stop.

He shifted carefully to his side so he wouldn’t shake the bed too much to get a better look down at Sidney. His mouth was slightly open, puffing out with each deep breath. He looked very serious in sleep, which Zhenya had of course seen on buses and planes with the team, but it was one thing to see someone conked out on a tiny nylon seat and another to see them up close like this, no distractions or barriers.

He looked incredibly young, which made sense, Zhenya supposed, since he was.His mama’s words rang in his head again. They both were, and now they would grow up together, even closer than they would if they stayed merely teammates, building up the franchise and making the Penguins great again.

Gazing down at Sidney’s sweet sleeping form, he couldn’t help but feel a little smug. He had managed to lock this down when none of dozens of match dates had been able to. He had Sidney, now. He must be doing something right.

He leaned down to rub his nose lightly against Sidney’s cheek, who twitched once but then relaxed, as Zhenya dragged it softly back to his ear, nuzzling into his neck.

He was matched, he reflected, huffing out a soft breath of surprise. The ceremony was a blur, short and dour as all orthodox match ceremonies Zhenya could remember were, possibly even more so than the Russian ceremonies he had attended as a boy, which Zhenya thought was frankly impressive. And here he was, matched in the faith of his childhood, to a firmly observant boy, in an agreement and covenant that ostensibly was meant to be eternal and unbreakable. He was twenty-two, and he was matched to the best hockey player in the world, the other A, most likely his captain during the next season. Forever.

He let the words roll over in his mind, trying to feel out how he felt. If there were any panic or nerves.

Forever was a long time. Zhenya was a head-down kind of guy. He usually decided on a plan, and then focused on putting in the work each day, going to bed, getting up to do it again tomorrow, shying away from focusing on the ultimate goal too intensely, until eventually he was able to look around and see he’d propelled himself to where he wanted to be.

It turned the monotonous physical and mental demands of hockey into automatic biorhythms. It made other parts of his life more difficult to center on.

One time a girlfriend had asked him what their future was, and he honestly hadn’t understood the question. They were together _now_ , he’d told Nastia, absolutely baffled. What did the future matter?

But it had mattered a lot to Nastia, apparently, because she’d sighed and said they were probably going to need to break up now. 

Denis had called his unrelenting focus a little freakish, and his mother urged him not to let himself drown in the daily anxieties and his father told him it didn’t hurt to reach for the long-term, but Zhenya didn’t know how to be any other way. 

And looking down at Sidney the morning after their first night as a matched couple, Sidney curled up tight as a pill bug against his chest, both of them still blissfully naked, Zhenya didn’t think about the days and months and years ahead, unspooling unendingly into the future before them. Instead, he thought about how in this moment, there was nothing he wanted more than to run his hand down Sidney’s solid chest, soft and smooth save for a sparse smattering of hair, and press him closer to Zhenya with a firm palm against his sternum.

So he did.

He felt when Sidney woke up, because he gave a little jerk, then stilled. “Geno?” he mumbled. He turned his head even though his eyes were still closed, as though he wanted to look at Zhenya but not enough to fully give in to being awake. He looked kind of like a mole, and Zhenya didn’t think he could be blamed for brushing an embarrassingly tender kiss on his nose. “Yes. Me. Morning.”

“Morning,” Sidney repeated muzzily. He slitted his eyes open, looking suspicious and terribly sleepy. “What time is it?”

Zhenya made a shushing sound. “Very early.” He kissed Sidney’s cheek, then the corner of one eye, his nose. “Sleep again. Too early.”

Still frowning, Sidney turned on his back, squinting up at him. Sidney was not a morning person as it turned out. He was always first on the ice for morning skate, full of energy, and so Zheny would never have expected the grumpy moue on his face. It was delightful, really. 

Zhenya bent and kissed him, sucking gently on his lower lip. Sidney made an interested noise and lifted his head to chase the pressure.

He’d had vague thoughts of a lazy morning make out, but Zhenya was instead hit with a sharp pang of urgency that made him shift closer, resting his forearms on either side of Sidney’s head to cage him in where Zhenya could tangle his hands in his hair and hold Sidney’s head still, tilting and adjusting so he could get the best angle for the kiss, Sidney’s sharp inhalations making Zhenya feel fuzzy and out of focus. 

Sidney held onto Zhenya’s biceps, squeezing tight whenever Zhenya sucked on his tongue or nibbled delicately at his plump upper lip, obligingly tilting his head where Zhenya guided him. He drew his knees up in fits and starts until a particularly thorough sweep of Zhenya’s tongue sent Sidney’s right leg curling around Zhenya’s hip, holding him tight in the cradle of his hips.

Zhenya groaned and let his hips drop, bringing their cocks together in a rolling grind.

The kiss lost its rhythm for a moment as they both made noises at that, Sidney moaning into Zhenya’s open mouth, Zhenya rolling his hips in a tight circle, relishing in the pressure and the friction and the way Sidney arched his back to get closer.

The room fell quiet save for the soft shuffling of the sheets and the muted sounds coming from the back of Sidney’s throat as Zhenya pushed the kiss deeper, licking into Sidney’s mouth with increased purpose. For once, Zhenya couldn’t hear anyone else in the house, not Sidney’s parents or sister bustling below, or extended family and the rest of the community traipsing and in out of the house. The little bedroom was like a world all its own, with nothing for time for them to tangle closer and closer together. 

As Zhenya pulled back to nose along Sidney’s jawline, licking and sucking kisses as he went, Sidney slid his hands over Zhenya’s shoulders and down his back, hands hesitating for a moment in the dip right before his ass. Zhenya went still, waiting to see if he would—and then Sidney slid his hands down and cupped Zhenya’s ass, gripping almost defiantly.

He growled, thrusting up in reward, biting lightly at Sidney’s throat. “Sidney,” he murmured. Their cocks were sliding together, rubbing against Sidney’s belly. “So good.” 

Tentatively at first, but slowly gaining momentum, Sidney pulled Zhenya forward with his grip on his ass, driving the speed of their thrusts.

Zhenya dug his knees into the bed for leverage and, holding himself up with one arm, he brought the other down to wrap a hand around both of their cocks, squeezing, watching the way Sidney’s cock fit in his hand, against his cock, so perfectly. The new position created enough space where he could see Sidney’s face and his flushed chest and his belly go hollow as he gasped with each stroke of Zhenya’s hand. 

When Zhenya glanced away from their cocks sliding together, his heart pounding his ears, he saw Sidney staring at his face, mouth open.

“Sid,” he said, breathless. He swooped in, capturing his mouth. Sidney groaned into the kiss, releasing Zhenya’s ass to cradle his head, holding him close like he was worried Zhenya was going to pull away. Like Zhenya would ever want to leave.

Zhenya wanted to hold out, to make sure Sidney came first, but he fell over the edge so suddenly it made his head throb. He gave a few hard thrusts, hips out of rhythm of his hand where it was stroking them both desperately, and came all over Sidney’s stomach. Sidney gasped, legs going tighter around Zhenya’s waist.

“Baby, come,” Zhenya whispered in his ear. He used the slick of his own come to jack Sidney off, a little less coordinated in his post-orgasm stupor, but nonetheless focused. “So pretty, come on, Sid.” 

Sidney’s nails dug into Zhenya scalp but it was worth it, watching his mouth go wide as a high-pitched sound tore its way out of his throat, spurting onto his stomach and Zhenya’s hand.

Zhenya pitched onto his side but let his cheek smoosh against Sidney’s shoulder as he worked to catch his breath. He was beat. They were a mess. His stomach felt light, like it was about to flutter away. 

Above him, Sidney was silent save for the sound of his chest working under Zhenya’s face. After a while it was unnerving. With effort, Zhenya lifted his head to see.

“Sid?” he checked in, voice rough. 

Sidney looked down at him, wide-eyed. He couldn’t seem to stop blinking. “That was really good.” He cupped Zhenya’s face, staring at him like he needed to make sure Zhenya understood. His hands were still trembling. “Geno. That was so good.”

Zhenya thought he’d probably try to look smug later, when his own heart stopped hammering and his skin didn’t feel so oversensitive it was almost painful. He nodded stupidly. He stretched to brush a kiss against Sidney’s chin, then another on his cheek. He couldn’t find any English words. He rested his cheek on Sidney’s sweaty chest, winded. 

“Geno,” Sidney said, sounding urgent. He squeezed Zhenya’s shoulders. “Geno, can we do it again? When can we do it again?” 

Zhenya felt his cock give a feeble twitch at the thought. He hummed, reaching up blindly to pat at Sidney’s face. “Sh,” he urged. He settled his hand over his mouth and nose. “Try to kill me. Sh, Sid.” 

“ _Geno_ ,” Sidney whined, but there was a smile in his voice. “Come on. We're elite hockey players. We need to work on your stamina.”

Propping his head on his chin, Zhenya shot him a fatigued but affronted glare. “Insult match partner already? Mean, Sid.”

Sidney colored, playful smile dropping off his face. “I didn’t mean—you’re right, that wasn’t—sorry.”

Still loose and unworried from orgasm, Zhenya shook his head, quieting Sidney’s fretting. “All okay, Sid. I give what you need. We match now, I give you what you need always.” He dipped his head, kissing Sidney’s stomach. 

Using a corner of the sheet, he wiped off the worst of the come where it was cooling on Sidney’s stomach and scooted down so he was level with his cock, which was still half-hard, or was becoming hard again, who knew. Keeping eye contact with Sidney, he put his forearm across Sidny’s hips to anchor him, opened his mouth and sucked the tip of Sidney’s cock in, swirling his tongue around the crown.

Sidney’s body arched upward like a bow. “Oh,” he cried out, startled. He gripped the sheets on either side in tight fists. Zhenya sucked again, less gently, and Sidney’s upper back came off the bed again. “Oh my— _Geno_.”

Zhenya had always liked going down on people, making someone come apart beneath his mouth, but nothing had ever felt like this. He was watching Sidney come apart in a way no one had ever seen before. And it was Zhenya’s job to make him feel this good, to learn everything he liked best.

The times they’d been together before had been shrouded in the desperate rules Zhenya tried to uphold to protect Sidney’s modesty, such as it was, or the furtive rush of the café bathroom, or even the day before, messing around out of sight of the family so they wouldn’t get caught. 

But now there was nothing stopping them or slowing them down; Zhenya could spend all morning making Sidney come, or running his hands all over his body, or simply holding him tight in his arms and drifting off to sleep.

They had their entire lives, Zhenya thought hazily, wrapping his hand around the base of Sidney’s cock, working up a rhythm with his mouth. It was a heady thought.

Sidney couldn’t stop moving, little jerks of his hips against the arm Zhenya was using to hold him down, feet flexing against Zhenya’s sides, hands running restlessly across Zhenya’s head, his back, his shoulders, until Sidney arched again and grabbed his own hair, head pitched back, mouth open. Zhenya had to pause to stare up at him, the smooth planes of his body, muscles bunched and taut. 

No one else would ever see Sid like this but Zhenya.

Suddenly he needed Sidney to come more than anything, right now. His own hips were working against the bed, short abortive thrusts. He took his hand off Sidney’s cock and tugged gently as his balls, rubbing just behind and watching how Sidney jerked and moaned, so loudly, before going further back to his hole. He ran a fingertip there, still soft and open from the night before.

Sidney made a chocked sound, and Zhenya pressed the tip of a finger in, not wanting to take the time to grab any lube. Sidney pushed back into the contact, whining a bit as Zhenya matched the rhythm of his finger pushing in and out to his mouth sucking Sidney down.

“Geno,” Sidney muttered, sounding mindless, “Geno, _Geno_.” 

It took him longer to get off, but Zhenya barely noticed, intent on every reaction, every response. Sidney started clenching tightly around Zhenya’s finger, and then he cried out throatily and came down Zhenya’s mouth.

He swallowed some of it, let the rest out slide out the corner and wiped off with the sheet. Sidney was twitching above him, and Zhenya was hard and ready to go off himself, but as he reached down to wrap a hand around his own cock, he felt Sidney grab at his upper arms. 

He hauled Zhenya up, pitching them both onto their sides. He was breathing like he’d been double-shifted. He clutched at Zhenya’s arms, body curling in tight. He burrowed his face into Zhenya’s chest. He seemed completely overwhelmed.

Pushing thoughts of his own insistent need to get off aside, Zhenya wrapped his arms around Sidney, a little hesitant, unsure whether to do much else than comfort. 

“Sid,” he murmured. He pressed soft kisses into his messy hair. Sidney wrapped his arms around Zhenya, squeezing tight, not saying anything. His sides expanded sharply under Zhenya’s hands with each uneven breath. Zhenya traced his fingers down Sidney’s back, a little unsteady himself in the face of Sid’s disquiet. “It’s okay. You’re okay. You’re so great, Sidney, I’m so lucky. I don’t know how I got this lucky, to play with you and be on your team and now this, to have you forever, it’s unbelievable. I don’t believe in the gods anymore but if I did, I’d thank them. This is a blessing.”

Sidney exhaled shakily. His breathing had mostly settled. “What are you saying?” 

Zhenya switched back to English. “What, no Russian? Sorry, I forget.” 

Sidney grumbled. That at least was a comforting return to form. Zhenya pulled apart enough to see his face. His eyes were bright, cheeks red, but he looked calmer. 

“You okay?” Zhenya asked.

Sidney rubbed his face against the pillow. “Yeah, I’m good. It was just a lot. And, you know. Everything feels different now, and then you look at me like that and I just—it’s a lot.”

Zhenya felt indescribably protective. He cupped Sidney’s cheek. “I know.” It was a lot for him too.

He kissed Sidney as sweetly as he knew how. He pulled back, Sidney still clinging sweetly. “We shower,” Zhenya whispered, “get breakfast. Maybe come back up here?”

Sidney colored, pretty adorably innocent, at least in Zhenya’s opinion, for someone who had just gotten off twice, and nodded. “I’m starving,” he admitted, also on a whisper.

Zhenya grinned. “Me too.” He had this giddy feeling in his stomach he couldn’t shake. Everything felt like a secret joke between them. 

They hopped in the shower together, Sidney charmingly embarrassed about being naked outside the confines of the bed together before Zhenya pressed him to the wall and licked rivulets of water off his throat, and then Sidney seemed to forget about any nerves in favor of wrapping a leg around Zhenya and making high noises in his throat as Zhenya lazily kissed the daylights out of him. 

They got clean and dressed, with copious breaks to real each other in for kisses. Zhenya couldn’t stop touching Sidney, pulling him in, running his hands over his body. At least Sidney couldn’t seem to help himself either.

It wasn’t until they were finally making their way downstairs that Zhenya truly remembered they weren’t alone in the house. 

Now that they were downstairs, Zhenya could hear Sidney’s parents talking quietly in the kitchen. It was strange not to hear myriad other voices of community members Zhenya didn’t recognize, a familiar reality during Zhenya’s last few weeks in Cole Harbor, and he couldn’t help but wonder if maybe the Crosby’s were keeping things quiet in deference to the newlyweds’ first morning. It was a sweet, if mortifying, thought. He was reminded again that privacy in the community was an illusion.

As Sidney tugged him forward by the hand, Zhenya stilled. “Sid.” He tried to gentle pull their clasped hands apart. Before he had felt stifled by the stringent modesty rules, but he’d also felt constantly on the verge of having Sidney slip through his fingers and he’d been feeling a little desperate.

Also, these were his in-laws, now. Even Troy, gods help them all. It would probably be in Zhenya’s best interest long-term to maybe cool it, if that were even possible. Not force them to see how he’d managed to steal their good orthodox son into his despoiling Russian arms—he could be magnanimous in victory, he decided. 

The corner of Sidney’s mouth curved up. He squeezed Zhenya’s hand. “It’s different now.” 

“How different?” Zhenya asked suspiciously. “No more modesty? No more rules?” That seemed too good to be true, and it wasn’t like he’d seen all the other matched couples in Cole Harbor getting all handsy at the dinner table.

“No,” Sidney said, shrugging. “There’s still rules, but it’s a little relaxed for newly matched couples. Besides, everyone knows—they know what we were doing.”

Zhenya thought he could probably spend the rest of his life watching Sidney blush and never want for anything. 

Still alone in the hallway, Zhenya wrapped Sidney in his arms for a quick hug. He pressed a kiss to his temple. “Yes, they know. But not know how good I make you feel.” He squeezed his arms around Sidney’s waist, feeling him wriggle a little. “How good you make _me_ feel.”

Sidney tilted his head back. He licked his lips, tentative. “I did? I mean—you did?”

Zhenya nodded gravely, even though all he really wanted to do was coo and cuddle and spirit Sidney back upstairs to bed. “Really good.” 

Looking shyly pleased, Sidney pressed a quick kiss to the corner of Zhenya’s mouth and stepped away. “Let’s go.” He held out his hand, and Zhenya, reminding himself that in the real world outside of the orthodox bubble he’d been ensconced in with Sid for weeks chastely holding hands was so unremarkable as to be prudish, he took Sidney’s hand and let himself be towed into the kitchen.

Trina was bringing the coffee pot over to Troy, refilling their mugs. They looked up and Sidney and Zhenya wandered in. Trina glanced down at their hands and instead of looking disapproving, she smiled.

“Be with the gods,” she said softly, in greeting. 

“And unto you,” Sidney replied, just as gently.

Trina and Sidney looked at each other for a long moment, something tender and private passing between them. Zhenya wandered what Trina saw when she looked at Sidney and Zhenya together, at the soft smile on Sidney's face, that made her look so emotional.

He also saw Troy’s eye twitch as he glanced at their clasped hands, but he didn’t comment.

As they say down, Trina poured them both coffee and Troy pushed over a plate of toast, more to Sidney than to Zhenya, but Zhenya took the first piece anyway.

Sidney chatted with his parents, and Zhenya let his thoughts drift, munching on toast.

It took him a moment to realize they were talking about living arrangements. He dialed back in as Sidney turned to him to ask, “Do you think Gonch will mind if we stay with him next season?”

One of them would need to move, and he was maybe a little embarrassed that it had just now occurred to him. He’d been so focused on overcoming the sheer cliff of matching with Sidney, he kept being surprised by all the other considerations. He vowed to try harder, so it wasn’t just up to Sid to take care of the details.

“Not stay with Mario?”

Troy and Trina shared a look. Sidney kept his face carefully blank as he said, “I think it makes more sense to stay somewhere you can still speak Russian.” 

“That’s not big deal,” Zhenya insisted. He didn’t want plans to be made around his desire to cling to the Gonchars, as comfortable as it seemed.

“It’s a big deal to me,” Sidney said. His lips were pursed stubbornly, in a way Zhenya was sure he’d probably stop finding attractive eventually, just not right now. 

“I wish we could come stay with you,” Trina said wistfully. “It’s not right for a young matched couple to be on their own.” 

It sounded like a fine enough arrangement to Zhenya, but he held his tongue. 

“But it’s better for you to live with a family, if we can’t.” Trina had a stubborn, familiar look on her face. It was a little eery. Zhenya didn’t want to argue with her. “If you can’t be in the community, I at least want you with a family.”

“Is that okay?” Sidney asked him. “We could look for a house instead. Maybe start looking this summer.”

Personally, Zhenya would have preferred more privacy. But Sidney looked freaked out at the idea of living on their own, away from the bosom of some kind of familial oversight, and the last thing Zhenya wanted was to push against whatever nebulous tradition they seemed to be coming up against now.

“Happy live with Mario. Whatever Sid want,” Zhenya said honestly. “I live where he want."

For once, Troy seemed pleased by Zhenya’s answer. Grudgingly, but still.

From the hall, there was a commotion of tiny feet running. Taylor appeared in the kitchen, Lyanne following more sedately behind, yawning. She smiled at Zhenya and Sid. “I hope the gods blessed your match,” she said knowingly.

Zhenya grinned, flushing, as Sidney squirmed. Taylor ignored all of this and waked right up to Zhenya. 

“Are you my brother now?” she asked, nose wrinkling up and making her look uncannily like Sid. 

Zhenya glanced at Sid, who was watching them, smiling. “Yes. I’m brother.” He shook out his hand to Taylor. “Nice to meet.”

She beamed and put her tiny hand in his palm. “When is your family coming? Do you have lots of brothers and sisters? When are you and Sidney going to have babies?” 

Trina plucked Taylor up and tucked her onto her lap, ignoring Taylor’s protests. “What does scripture say about asking rude questions?”

Taylor made a face. “I don’t know,” she grumbled.

Arching an eyebrow from across the table, Troy supplied, “Blessed are those that hold their own council, and allow others to keep theirs.”

For a brief moment, Zhenya was hit with a vision of Sidney, years older, sitting across the table from a little kid who had his eyes and mouth as Sidney lectured on some obscure piece of scripture out of thin air. The little kid looking annoyed but respectful just like Taylor was right now.

It was a little jarring. Sidney didn’t quote scripture, and he wasn’t stern like his dad, and Zhenya had never thought he wanted his kids to grow up with the threat of scripture and the gods as the guide behind their good behavior anyway. But the thought of Sidney passing down wisdom, guidance—it was surprisingly appealing to picture.

He didn’t think they would go through the process of trying to adopt children—gods, _children_ —for many years, possibly until after they retired. But it was still another complication to consider, a plan to put in place for a future he was never good at conceptualizing anyway.

He felt Sidney’s hand wrap tight around his thigh under the table. Zhenya looked down to see Sidney watching him, a tiny frown between his eyebrows, like he was worried. Zhenya never wanted Sidney to worry, and while he might not be able to prevent it always, he could right now.

As the rest of the family began talking about little bits of nothing, Zhenya covered Sidney’s hand with his own and squeezed.

The frown slowly disappeared. Sidney smiled, and Zhenya breathed out. He would learn how to be the best possible match for Sidney. He could do it. Day by day.

 

*

 

The first month of being matched to Geno flew by in a haze. 

Sidney would be lying if he said most of it wasn’t spent sneaking away to have sex. 

And oh, the _sex_. Sidney had spent a long time compartmentalizing sex and the rest of his life—focusing on hockey, his career, his place on the team, and not allowing himself to think about anything sexual beyond a cursory jerk in the shower or to help himself fall asleep at night. 

Until Geno, there had been no cracks in that armor. Now, it felt impossible to think of a time when he wasn’t keenly aware of his body, of the way it felt to have Geno run his hands over his skin, the almost unspeakably intimacy of watching Geno’s mouth fall open, his eyes tight and almost pained as he came. 

He was more than a little addicted to it. He felt distracted all the time, always half-focused on where Geno was or when they could be alone next. Not for the first time, he gave thanks that he’d been matched in the summer when all he had to do was train and keep up with a few select media commitments. Sidney hadn’t gone to any of the summertime awards ceremonies, as usual, wiggling out with vague claims about orthodox responsibilities (really he just hated sitting through them), and with some maneuvering from JP, Geno was excused as well. 

Neither of them was very eager to reenter the real world, especially not the world of the NHL.

Sidney did his best to tone down the touching in the front of the family, but even that was hard. He felt like he always needed to have a hand on Geno. An anchor. Touching the small of his back, walking so close their shoulders brushed, holding hands.

One evening they’d been eating dinner with Sidney’s family and a few others and Geno had been making faces at Taylor and some of the little kids, and in the middle he’d thrown his head back to laugh. The sight of his long neck stretched out had been enough for Sidney to stop with his fork halfway to his mouth, staring, frozen, as to his horror he felt himself growing hard just looking at Geno’s neck. 

Lyanne had chuckled at him, laughing. “You’ll settle in eventually.”

He looked at her in disbelief. This was like some kind of insatiable _hunger_. How could this ever possibly _settle_?

He hadn’t really appreciated how much the rules would shift once they were matched, and how grateful he would be, because if he hadn’t been allowed to touch Geno anywhere but in their bedroom at night, Sidney would probably burst into flames. 

He’d had vague memories of giggling aunts and uncles cuddling together immediately after a match, and while Sidney and his cousins would roll their eyes and gag a little, everyone tended to look the other way as long as it wasn’t too egregious.

It hadn’t struck him when he was younger, but now he could feel how everyone just seemed so _happy_ for him, for them both. The whole community was indulgently tolerant, even Sid’s parents (well, at least his mother and Lyanne, since Sidney’s dad and Geno still seemed trapped in a silent battle of wills that didn’t seem likely to end anytime soon).

It was easy to forget they would be going back to Pittsburgh at the end of the month for training camp.

He’d gotten a call from Mario a few weeks before their flight back.

“Hey,” Sidney answered cautiously, stepping out of the training room where Geno and his uncles were amicably bickering about the right form for working the hip flexors. Geno was wrong, but Sidney was doing his best to be a good match partner and not side against him, so Mario’s call was actually good timing.

“Sidney,” Mario said evenly. “I hope it’s been a good summer for you.”

“It’s been great.” Sidney tried not to sound too skittish because it was true. It had been a truly unbelievable summer. “Geno and I have been training with my uncles. We’re feeling good.”

“Geno stayed the summer.” Mario wasn’t asking so much as confirming, and Sidney swallowed. "You've matched."

“Yes.” He sat against the wall, wishing he didn’t feel so much like he was about to admit a shameful secret. He wasn’t ashamed. For the first time, his faith and the rest of his life had coalesced to bring him something perfect, his match with Geno, and he never could have expected things to work out this way. Right now, things seemed to perfect it was almost frightening. He wished he could show Mario that, make him believe it. 

On the other end, Mario was quiet. Just as Sidney felt ready to break, Mario beat him to the punch. “Sidney, I owe you an apology.”

Sidney remained silent. He picked at the seam of his shorts, waiting.

“I should have trusted you to make your own decisions. I’m sorry I didn’t.”

Mario sounded uncomfortable but sincere. It made Sidney soften immediately.

“It’s okay,” Sidney said. It was. Mario had brought Sidney in that first year when he’d been overwhelmed and homesick and trying to pretend like he wasn’t any of those things on the ice. Mario had given him a home with a family and even if it wasn’t his own community, Sidney knew he would have been miserable if he’d been alone. He knew his playing had benefitted from the stability of Mario’s billet. No matter how complicated the end of the season had gotten, he could never forget that.

He wasn’t sure how to say _thank you for attempting to interfere with the traditions of my religion by explicitly encouraging me to behave unchastely to the point that I ended up matching with my best friend despite the strict precepts of the matchmaking system_ without sounding like he was being snotty. He wasn’t. He was truly, truly grateful for the opportunity Mario had unwittingly granted them, no matter his intentions.

“Mario, I know this might be a weird thing to say, but—thank you.” He squeezed his eyes shut and just said it, “You’re a really good matchmaker.”

Mario sucked in a breath in surprise. Then, to Sidney’s endless relief, he laughed. It started as a chuckle, then grew into more of a guffaw, and Sidney giggled in helpless response.

“Damn,” Mario said once he caught his breath. He sounded resigned. “What a fool I turned out to be.”

“No, you weren’t. You were trying to do what you thought was best for me.” It was easy to be charitable while he was still basking in the newlywed glow of the first month of matching.

They fell quiet. It wasn’t uncomfortable. It was like some pressure had been lifted—Sidney was matched now, regardless of whatever opinions he or Mario had held about the institution of matchmaking itself, and all they could do was move on.

“So, should Nathalie and I expect you both back next month? Or will you be moving out?”

Just the suggestion made Sidney feel restless. He had never lived on his own in his entire life. Orthodox didn’t _live alone_ , and even if he would never truly be alone now that he was matched (it was him and Geno, now, he couldn’t help but think of with pleasure, the promise of forever with a match still too new not to be a marvel) he couldn’t imagine just the two of them rattling around a house together. It was daunting, and it felt wrong. Homes needed family, and family was community, loud and busy and overbearing.

It was different because Sidney already lived away from the community and likely wouldn’t move back permanently to Cole Harbor for years. But if he was normal, a better, less contrary orthodox who had never left to pursue a heathen career, he’d still be living with his parents, and once he matched, he and his match partner would live there too, and eventually Taylor’s match one day, and all their children, the house big and bustling and bursting with family.

He wanted that with Geno.

“Would you be okay with Geno and I staying with you still?” Sidney asked tentatively. “If not, we can check with Gonch—maybe it will be better if Geno has someone to speak Russian to—” 

Mario cut in. “Sidney, of course! We would love nothing more than for you to come home.” He sounded deeply pleased. Sidney thrilled at the word ‘home.’ Pittsburgh was his home, and Mario’s house was his home, and he was making a new home with Geno now, and everything was warm and new and Sidney was almost jittery with excitement. 

He smiled into the phone. “Really?”

Mario laughed again, relieved. “I was just so sure you wouldn’t want to stay, after everything. But Nathalie will be so happy to hear that. The kids will be over the moon. They’ve missed you, Sidney. We’ve all missed you.” He paused. “And we’re all looking forward to celebrating your match.” 

“Thank you, Mario,” Sidney said, meaning every word.  
  
“You’re welcome, Sidney.”

The moment stretched, full of a new sense of tentative hope. Mario was trying, really trying, and Sidney was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

“So, have you decided when to announce it? Have you talked to Brisson?”

Sidney had in fact been avoiding talking to Pat head-on about a strategy to announce the match, to management, to the team or to the media. Brisson was a great agent, but he was almost a caricature of a worldly, hardheaded secular nonbeliever, and when he and Sidney talked it was sometimes like two people shouting across a great divide in completely different languages at one another. Pat was excellent at negotiations and had gone out of his way to secure all the riders Sidney required as part of his entry onto the Penguins—separate changing room, rooming alone on the road, greater control over PR messaging related to his faith—and Sidney did his best to make Pat’s life easy by doing his best to make his orthodoxy as much of a nonissue as possible, and by refusing to feed the media’s bizarre and growing fixation on his private life, and that of his community.

But on a personal level, Sidney knew Pat thought he was weird, and although Sidney had told him he was going on match dates, Pat’s only response had been to tell him if anything changed.   

Sidney had sent him an email after the match ceremony, and Pat called him thirty minutes later to sit silently on his end of the phone.

“I thought you said you’d tell me if anything changed,” he finally said. 

“I did. I’m matched.” 

“But you told me you were going on match dates with other orthodox. You never told me a teammate was a possibility. That one of my firm's clients was a possibility. Geno isn’t orthodox.” 

Sidney didn’t know what to say. Brisson was right about all of it. Sidney had been avoiding

“Well, we need to decide how you want to spin this. Who you want to tell. Have you thought about that?”

Mildly panicked, Sidney had blurted, “Can I call you back?”

Pat sighed heavily. “Sure, kid. Always a pleasure to hear from you.”

It wasn’t a pleasant memory, and he hesitated to tell Mario the truth now. “We’re still working out a plan.”

“Well, you have my support. I’ll stand with you with management however you need.”

“Thanks.” Sidney wasn’t sure what he wanted to do still, but knowing that at the very least he had Mario was comforting.

They said goodbye and hung up and Sidney wandered back into the weight room. Geno was finishing up a set and caught Sidney’s eye as he came in.

He raised his eyebrows in an _everything okay?_ way.

Sidney shrugged back in an _it’s cool don’t worry about it_ way, and Geno’s eyebrows furrowed in a _don’t lie to me I know something’s up way_ , and Sidney was ready to keep silently arguing but then he was struck by how he’d seen his own parents have this same silent conversation about a zillion times before and had to look away.

When he did he saw his dad watching him. He didn’t look as annoyed as he usually did since the match ceremony. If anything, he looked thoughtful. 

They got back to the house and Geno followed him upstairs and pulled him to sit on the bed before Sidney could escape to get changed on his own.

Geno took both Sidney’s hands in his, toying with his fingers. The touch was so casual, and Sidney was amazed at how soothing it was. He was still worried about a lot of things, but being touched dulled all of it, somehow.

“What’s wrong?” 

“I talked with Mario.” It was a hedge, but not a lie, he assured himself.

Geno scooted closer, looking worry. “Yeah? What he say?” He sounded ready to fly to Pennsylvania and start a fight if it had been anything less than completely polite, which was sweet.

“Nothing bad. He was actually—good. He wants us to stay with him.” 

“Okay,” Geno said slowly. Like he was waiting for the punch line.

“He asked about Brisson. If we had a plan for telling everyone.”

Geno hummed thoughtfully, carefully still. Sidney knew Geno had been on the phone with JP, and he knew JP had probably been annoyed just like Pat was for being kept out of the loop, but Geno had been relatively quiet on the matter. Like he was waiting for Sidney to take the lead. 

Which he was apparently doing now, Sidney decided, unenthusiastically.

“I don’t think we should tell anyone,” he said in a rush. He looked at his hands in Geno’s because it was easier than meeting Geno’s face, and the way he was watching like he was worried Sidney was going to freak out.

“Not tell?” He was still doing that no-sudden-movements thing that was kind of pissing Sidney off. He resettled on the bed, tugging Sidney in until they were slouched along the bed, half-curled and facing one another.

Sidney sighed, messing with the collar of Geno’s shirt. It was a good distraction, it turned out. Touching other people.

“Well, Mario knows. And you’ll tell Gonch, I guess. They’ll know when we start billeting together. But the rest of the guys, I don’t want them to be weird with you.” Not like they were weird with Sid. He didn’t want Geno to fall victim to the same relentless interest, however well meaning, as Sidney. 

“How that even work, Sid?”

“You room alone on road? Tell Duper and Tanger you still go on match dates? I can’t touch you?” He wrapped a big hand around Sidney’s thigh, clasping tight, sending a tingle up Sidney’s leg directly to his cock, which felt great and was really unwelcome right now that this moment. 

Sidney kicked a leg out fitfully. None of that sounded great. But it sounded better than the alternative, which he could envision all too well. 

“People are going to freak out, Geno. They’re going to be so weird and inappropriate about it. Maybe not all the guys on the team, but some of them, and the fans and the media—it’s going to be so bad. Everyone’s going to want to know about everything. And they’re going to—people really suck, Geno. The things they say about me just because I’m orthodox, and now you’ll get it too, but worse because no one’s going to understand why you’re matched if you’re not orthodox—”

“So tell them I’m orthodox.” Geno shrugged. Problem solved.

“But you’re _not_ ,” Sidney hissed. It felt like a weight bearing down on his shoulders even thinking about it, crushing him down until his knees buckled. They’d been more or less able to get around it here by evading questions about Geno’s faith by having him suddenly and selectively lose his English. But he knew his parents knew, and were avoiding tackling it head on because it would end in disgrace and shame for Sidney and his family. They were all stuck in this together, pretending Sidney had married an orthodox, that Geno was orthodox. Whatever his grandmother had said on the phone had been enough for the elders and the council who had blessed the match.

“Sid, I’m matched to orthodox. We are family, your family is my family. We match in orthodox ceremony.” Geno shrugged. “To everyone, I’m orthodox.”

“But you don’t believe in any of it!” Sidney burst out. He thought of his own crushing guilt that he wasn’t living up to the values of his faith, that the gods were watching and finding him wanting, that they knew that any children he raised with Geno wouldn’t be fully orthodox, because Geno was lapsed—not just lapsed, but a heathen. “I believe this, it’s my life, I don’t know any other way to be, and I’m forcing you to live this way. How can you be okay with it? How can you want people to know?” 

Geno leveled him with a stare like he was mulling over Sidney’s outburst carefully, and maybe he had been talking a little fast. Sidney held his gaze, angry and combative and so, so nervous that any second Geno was going to nod and get up and leave all this behind,  

Finally Geno sighed wearily. “Sid, we do what you want.”

“We always do what I want,” Sidney protested. “I wanted to get matched, so we matched. I want to live with Mario, so we’re living with Mario. And now I don’t want to tell people, and that’s fine too.” He shoved at Geno’s chest, not too gently. “Just tell me what you _want_ , Geno. Come on.” 

In a flash, Geno rolled over until he was covering Sidney with his body. He was bigger but lanky, and Sidney had him in muscle mass, so they struggled for a moment until Geno straddled his waist and pressed their hips together and Sidney went still, pulling in a sharp breath.

“Cheating,” he chided, suddenly breathless.

Geno smirked, rolling his hips a little. Sidney could see him getting hard through his shorts. Gods, how were they every going to get anything done if all it took to get them going was a little wrestling? How were they going to focus up on next season?

As though he could hear him spinning out, Geno leaned forward to plant his hands on either side of Sidney’s head, looming over him, boxing him in. It was still distracting, but in a grounding sort of way. Sidney let himself kind of melt into the mattress, focused only on Geno.

“Such bossy. All the time. You think, only reason people do anything is because you want.”

Sidney shifted uneasily. “That’s not true. I don’t think that.” 

Geno let more of his weight hold Sidney down. He shook his head, leaning down to kiss Sidney at the base of his throat. “You do. Think I do everything for you. Sweet.” He bit lightly at the base of Sidney’s shoulder, making his gasp. Gods, they were having a serious conversation, and all Sid could think about was rolling Geno over and rutting against him until they both came. Madness.

Speaking into the crook of Sidney’s neck, Geno ground out, “Maybe I want that people know. Know we match. You pick me. You mine.” He sounded fierce, proud. Sidney’s belly felt liquid. He was stiffening, unable to stop it. Geno pulled back and just looked down at Sidney, mouth pensive. He smiled softly, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Sidney felt himself blush, because it was a dumb way to look at him. Geno wasn’t getting much out of this bargain that wasn’t outweighed by everything he was going to have to give up, from Sidney’s perspective.

Geno cupped his cheek, rubbing his thumb across his cheekbone. “But, I want most that you’re happy. That most important.”

Sidney groaned, frustrated. “I want you to be happy, too. It’s not just what I want. I’m not special.” He wanted to protect Geno too. Keep him safe from the stupid nonsense that would inevitably follow once the league knew. Maybe it was unreasonable but he wished there was some way they could keep playing amazing hockey together and also be matched and not have anything else change. 

“In Pittsburgh next week,” Geno said. “See team, see trainers and coaches. It’s big secret. Very big. Maybe too big.”

“But what if—what about what everyone will say about you?”

“You didn’t think this before match?” Geno’s tone was teasing, but his gaze was frank. Sidney felt like an idiot. Sure, he’d thought about what it would be like if they matched, but mostly he’d been focused on the relief of getting to keep him, of not having to hide it.

And it was strange, really. How much more protective he felt of Geno know that they were matched. It had been there before, when they were sneaking around. But now that Geno was _his_ , the idea of the stuff other teams would say on the ice, the chirping in the room edging into mocking, the endless articles about whether orthodox players were inherently unsuited to the NHL—Sidney hated thinking about Geno having to put up with that. He didn’t want him to have to.

“I’m know it’s complicated. I’m fine with tell.” He dropped down so they were slotted together, a leg carelessly thrown over Sidney’s. “What you really want, Sid?”

“I want people to know you’re mine, too,” Sidney said softly, like he was admitting something terrible. In a way he was—it was selfish. He shouldn’t want the self-satisfaction of being with Geno more than the potential propriety of keeping it secret. 

Geno smacked a kiss to his cheek. “I’m shower. Maybe start by tell few people on team. Talk with JP and Pat together, make a plan.”

He rolled to his fee, leaving Sidney on the bed, still half-hard and a little betrayed. “Geno,” he groaned, annoyed.

Geno shrugged, smiling. He was so smiley these days. Sidney loved it. “Dinner soon. Need to clean up or mama will scold.”

Sidney watched him go, tracking his ass more than anything, then pulled out his phone and sighed. Maybe it was a good start, test the waters with some of the guys. See what they said.

And Geno was right—Sidney wanted people to know that Geno had chosen him, too. 

He exhaled and sent the text, one at a time, to Duper and Tanger, and after a moment of indecision, to Flower too. Within minutes, they sent back responses in sequence. 

_dude is this serious? CALL ME NOW._

_But, G’s not orthodox? I thought that was kind of the main thing? I’m confused, but congrats, I guess._

_Guess there's no going back now then._

He sent back the same text to all of them: _back in Pittsburgh next week, talk to you then_. It was the coward's way out, maybe, but it was all he could handle right now.

Leaving Cole Harbor was both harder and easier than ever before. He’d loved being with his cousins, and spending time with Taylor, but mostly it had been nice to be matched in a place where everyone already knew what that meant. Even if Sidney and Geno and Sidney’s parents knew their match was unusual, the rest of the community had treated it like any other. Here, Sidney was normal; what he and Geno had done was normal (or at least, as far as the community knew, it was normal). It wouldn’t be like that in Pittsburgh. Sidney’s faith already made him weird and announcing a match, to another _player_ , to a player who wasn’t officially recognized as orthodox himself—Sidney wasn’t kidding himself that it was going to be an ordeal.

Nearly the entire community saw them off at the airport, turning it into even more of a production than normal.

“Andrea, I’m fine,” Sidney told his cousin for the fourth time. She was holding him tight and weeping. “Stop crying. I’ll be home again in a few months.” 

“I’m not crying,” she snapped, pushing away. Over her shoulder, David looked at Sidney and rolled his eyes. “I don’t even care that you’re going.” 

“Goodbye, Andrea,” Sidney said, shaking his head. He smiled at David. “Bye, David. I’ll see you guys soon.” 

“Andrea, come on, pull it together,” David said, poking her.

She poked him back. “Stop poking me.” They bickered, stepping aside.

His mom stepped in, Lyanne on one side. “This is the beginning of the rest of your life together,” his mom said. She was teary-eyed. “It didn’t happen as I had envisioned, but the gods had other plans for you, as always.” 

Lyanne reached to pat his cheek. “Always such trouble with you. Make sure that boy treats you well.”

“And treat him well, too,” his mother added. “You’re a team, now. More than any hockey team. You're a pair, now.”

Sidney nodded, suddenly choked up. He knew that. That was all he really knew. He felt suddenly deeply ill-equipped to be matched, to be on his own. Lyanne made a sound and hugged him close, his mom’s arms coming around them both. 

For a long moment Sidney didn’t want to leave.

“Mom,” he mumbled. Everything felt so big, all of a sudden. But all he could think to say was, “Be with the gods.”

“And unto you.” She hugged him tighter. “You can always come home, my love. Always.” She always said that. But the longer Sidney stayed away, the less true that felt, and now he was setting off with a match partner in tow, and things had never felt more different. 

Finally, they parted, and Sidney turned to see his cousins talking to Geno, presumably giving him a hard time. He watched as Geno turned to say goodbye to Sidney’s dad.

He was pleased to see everyone was mostly smiles as they said goodbye to Geno. It was comforting, seeing how the community had taken him in as one of their own.

His conversation with Sidney’s dad looked quiet and intense, with Geno was mostly nodding. Sidney stepped over. “Everything okay?”

Geno nodded, putting a hand on Sidney’s shoulder. “Fine. All fine.” He nodded at Sidney’s dad. “I take good care.” He smiled softly at Sid and stepped away, giving them privacy. 

His dad turned to him. “We’ll be coming down in a month.” They came last year for a few games at the beginning of the season, and it was good to have them there, but now it felt almost unbearably far away. His dad’s face softened. He pulled Sidney in. “Nearly everything in life can be won through hard work, and you’ve never been afraid of hard work, son.” He clapped Sidney on the shoulder. “It wasn’t what we chose for you, but it’s what the gods chose, and we put our trust in them.” He nodded at Geno where he was bending to say a solemn goodbye to Taylor. “I pray that he is worthy of you.” 

“He is,” Sidney said, meaning it so, so much. 

“Well, then may the gods bless you both and keep you in the palms of their hands,” his dad said, eyes smiling. It was a private joke, a saying Sidney had hated as a kid because it didn’t make any sense—how could you be held in multiple palms at the same time?—and now Sidney laughed thickly. 

“Thank you,” he said. “Thanks.” 

The flight home was a little maudlin, at least on Sidney’s side. Geno held his hand but didn’t try to talk to him much, which Sidney appreciated. He needed the time to transition from being home to being back outside the community, away from where it felt safe. 

Mario picked them up at the airport and drove them home, keeping the conversation light and civil. Geno had plans to pick some of his stuff up from Gonch’s later, but for now, they ate dinner with the Lemieux’s and went up to share Sidney’s old bed, too tired from travel to do much more than a pair of lazy hand jobs before falling asleep. 

Sidney supposed that meant they truly were married, after all.

Heading into training camp was slightly complicated. 

First, Geno had asked Sidney if he wanted him to change away from the main locker room too. 

“What? No, I don’t care. You don’t have to—I don’t care.” That wasn’t entirely true, but Sidney felt immediately weird trying to dictate how Geno could behave. 

“Okay, but what about touch? I touch other guys? Okay?”

Sidney went stiff, finishing up collecting his gear before they left for the first day of training. He narrowed his eyes. “What does that mean? Why do you want to touch the other guys so much?”

Geno rolled his eyes. “Not like that, Sid. Come on.” He punched Sidney in the shoulder, then rubbed a hand through his hair, messing it up. Sidney batted him away. “Like that. Like, normal touch. That okay, or no, now we match?”

“Um.” Sidney had no idea. He was hit with the wild urge to call his mom and ask. What were the rules here? This was so far beyond the norm of an orthodox match, he couldn’t really say, and he felt like a moron for not thinking about it earlier, so maybe he could have actually _asked his parents_ when he was home.

Geno was still waiting for an answer. Sidney shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well. Maybe. I don’t know, routine is important? And I don’t want to mess with your routine? So, if it matters, you can keep doing things how you do them.”

“But when we tell team—what if they say stuff?” It felt like Geno was testing him, pushing after the things Sidney had been worried about while they were in Cole Harbor. Geno made a face, mouth turned down in an exaggerated moue. 

It was pissing Sidney off that Geno wasn’t taking this seriously. “I know you think I’m crazy, I’m sorry for trying to make things easier for you.”

Geno rolled his eyes, shoving lightly at Sidney’s shoulder. “You not crazy. Very annoy, but not crazy.”

“Okay, take it easy,” Sidney groused. He wasn't that annoying.

Geno cupped his hand on Sidney's neck, the preasure warm and infuriatingly soothing, when Sidney still wanted to grouch for a little bit longer. “I do what you want," Geno said. "Like I say: want you happy, if you want I follow orthodox rules, I follow.”

But Sidney was still nettled and more than that, he felt guilty making Geno give so much.

“No, it’s fine. We’ll tell the guys you’re reform, no one really knows for sure what the reformers are up to anyway, maybe you’re just a really lax orthodox.” 

Geno watched him for a moment. “You sure?”

Sidney wasn’t. He nodded anyway. “Yep.” 

Zhenya still looked like he wanted to press, but he pressed a kiss to Sidney’s head and they went down to join Mario in the car. 

They told the team that first day at camp. JP and Pat had set up a meeting, gone through the general details with Therrien and the managers, and then Sidney had asked to say something before they got down to drills.

“There’s going to be a press conference,” Pat had warned him. “This week or next, so don’t be surprised.” 

But that was for later. For now, he was standing in front of the entire team, Geno beside him, feeling young and tongue-tied and trying to figure out how to just put it out there.

Sidney had given speeches in the locker room before. He knew how to pump up the guys during a game, before a key practice, after a loss. 

But when he stood up front with Geno, Duper and Tanger watching knowingly, it was like it all went completely out the window.

“So, um. I know some of you guys have known I’ve been going on match dates, and. Well. Geno and I have matched. We matched. There's going to be an announcement to the press soon, so try to keep this in the room. And that’s what’s happening...with us, right now.”

He turned to see Geno looking at him like he was crazy. He blushed, shrugging. Admittedly not his best.

Geno turned to the room. “We match, nothing different, don’t be weird,” he ordered, pretty sternly for a barely-not-a-rookie, but it seemed to snap the room out of the silence that had descended. 

Duper raised his eyebrows. “Who would be weird? It’s just a secret locker room romance, why would that be weird?” 

“So normal. Just another day in the room, you know? I wish hockey players would stop getting married so often, frankly. It’s getting a little cliché.”

Sidney grinned, unaccountably relieved. It wasn’t taken care of, a good half of the guys were blinking in what looked like shock, but there were some basic chirps going around, and at least that was better than—Sidney wasn’t sure what he’d expected, jeers? Coming back from home was always weird that way, recalibrating to life outside the community. He had to remind himself, these guys were his teammates. If nothing else, they had a vested interest in everyone being healthy and focused and not distracted by worries about getting hazed.

Therrien stepped in then and got them down to business. Geno put his hand on Sid’s lower back as he followed him back to their seats, a touch so common now Sidney barely notice until there were a few whistles.

“Okay, enough,” Therrien called out, stern as always. “Thank you, Geno and Sid for keeping us up to speed. Now, if I could draw your attention to the schedule for today.”

It was a good first day back. Sidney loved the way his head went quiet as they did drills, the giddy uncomplicated joy he got on the ice, the familiar chirping as they all got the feel of each other again, the new trades, a few call-ups from Wilkes-Barre trying to get the feel for the team.

It was such a good day, in fact, that Sidney forgot to think about the room after practice.

As he was gathering his stuff up to go change, having met with a few reporters who obviously knew something was up but didn’t know enough to ask the right qustions yet, he met Geno’s eye where he stood watching Sidney get ready.

Geno raised an eyebrow in question, clearing offering to follow, but he already had his jersey off and his under armor half off a shoulder. None of the other guys were looking, Sidney could see his bare skin, and they all would be able to as well—he didn’t know how he felt, really. Only that it wasn’t _good_.

Sidney shrugged and turned to leave, trying not to fixate on how Geno was about to get naked in front of a bunch of guys who weren’t Sidney. They were still the same players. 

Behind him, he heard Duper say something like, “Huh, G, shouldn’t you—” but Tanger quieted him. 

He changed quickly, keeping his mind on training, what he needed to improve. Not on Geno being immodest in the locker room with a bunch of married and unmarried guys, it didn’t matter, Geno couldn’t be immodest because he wasn’t a practicing orthodox, Sidney was being unreasonable.

They needed to work on the power play. He made a mental note to bring up some stuff with Mario tomorrow, circle up the guys, run a few drills. He thought some of the older guys didn’t like it when he got bossy like that but it didn’t matter. They needed to be better this season. This season was important.

When he came out, Flower was in the hall, folding trying out some new gear.

“Hey,” Sidney said cautiously.

Flower nodded amicably, testing out a save in the pads, adjusting the straps. “These are a good brand,” he said to no one and started shaking off the blocker. 

“I just don’t know why you had to rush it,” he said without preamble, like they were continuing on some conversation already in progress. “Why couldn’t you just date or something?”

The only reason Sidney didn’t storm off was because Flower looked genuinely curious. Like he wanted to understand, but he wasn’t there, and for whatever reason Sidney wanted him to like him, so—

“That’s not what a match is,” Sidney tried to explain, slowly, because Flower obviously didn’t understand matches but he wanted him to. He liked Flower. He wanted him to get it. 

“But like, are you in love? Do you know that, at least?”

“It’s not about love, it’s about a foundation. You build from the match.”

“Except you’re not really building on the same foundation, are you?”

Sidney frowned. “What do you mean?” 

“Like, I think a lot of the orthodox stuff around matches is bullshit, but at least with those one orthodox is with another orthodox, and you got that in common. But that’s not you an Geno.”

Sidney felt himself freeze. He had to swallow a few times before he could speak. “What are you talking about?” 

Flower yanked a sweatshirt over his head, more agitated than maybe Sidney had ever seen him. He pointed at Sidney, mouth thinned to a narrow line.

“You can tell the media whatever you want, but I know Geno’s not orthodox. I watched him pull earlier in the season, going home with people. He drank, he swore, he walked around the room fucking naked whenever he wanted. He doesn’t pray or go to church or whatever. He’s a heathen, just like me. Dude’s not religious. And Sidney, you are, like, _man_. You’re so observant, and you have all these values and beliefs and you’ve grown up with them and you follow them. And now Geno’s willing to play along to make you happy, but how can you say you’re building on the same foundation? It’s just make-believe, man. You’re fooling yourself.” 

He cut himself off, catching sight of Sidney’s stricken face. Flower sighed, rubbing both hands over his face. “I’m sorry. Maybe that was out of line. I’m just—I’m a little worried for you, man. You can call it this big orthodox sacrament that’s meant to last forever, but you guys haven’t known each other that long. You’re so young.”

“But we do know each other. We’ll grow together. That’s how it works.” Sidney could hear the stubborn note in his own voice.  

Flower held up one hand. “Hey, I’m rooting for you guys. Like, prove me wrong. That’d be great. Just, maybe try to keep your expectations realistic. Sometimes things don’t work out, even fated religious match things. People are just people, orthodox or no.”

Sidney had no idea how he was going to be able to do that. Every day felt like he was tangled deeper and deeper with Geno, every part of him tied tighter until there was no space between them.

If one day Geno decided their foundation wasn’t there like Flower was saying, and the match wasn’t working, Sidney didn’t know if there’d be anything left if he left. 

Still feeling a little winded, Sidney jumped when Flower reached out to tap the wall at Sidney’s side, politely refraining from making physical contact.

“I do care about you. Weird as you are. And I mean weird just as a guy, not as an orthodox.” 

“Thanks, I guess.”

Geno was waiting for him when Sidney got back. He smiled, waving goofily as Sidney approached. “Not so bad, yes?”

Sidney nodded. The practice had been far from bad. Why did he feel so harried, then, like something was hanging over his head ready to drop and crush him.

“Okay?” Geno asked quietly. He always looked so worried when he thought Sidney was upset, and it made Sidney feel guilty, and subsequently more upset—being matched was really complicated, basically.

Sidney didn’t think he’d been so obvious, but he nodded anyway. “For sure.” He would be fine, too. He just needed to try harder. Push to make it work.

The parking garage was mostly empty as they walked out, Mario already waiting for them in the car, and Sidney let Geno take his hand as they walked out.

He tried not to squeeze too hard, but it was difficult. He wanted to hold on while he still could.

 

*

 

“So, married life,” Sergei said expectantly.

They were at lunch, one of the first times Zhenya had been able to get together just the two of them since he and Sid had gotten back from Cole Harbor. The gap just before the season started was always a rush, training camp and media obligations and in this case, moving all his shit from the Gonchar’s over to Mario’s. 

Gesturing with his hand, Zhenya corrected, “Matched life, at least.”

“It’s the same,” Sergei said with an eye roll. “You made a lifelong commitment, you’re married.”

Zhenya shrugged, smiling. He had. He still loved thinking it—he was matched to Sidney for life. It was a comforting thought. 

Sergei smiled indulgently. “So, what’s the verdict? How’s it going? Would you recommend to all your friends?”

“It’s really good,” Zhenya said truthfully.

“Even with the orthodox stuff?”

Zhenya made a face, mimicking, “‘The orthodox stuff’? What’s that, exactly?”

“Well, it’s no secret you weren’t observant, and you’re not exactly doing things differently now. How do you square that with you’re very observant, very modest husband?”

The truth was Zhenya wasn’t really sure. He felt like he should be making more of an effort. He wasn’t even going to be a believer, but he felt like he should be following some of the rules at least, just out of solidarity. 

He would be fine changing away with Sidney. In fact, it was kind of hot, the idea that Sidney would be the only one to see his body, just like Zhenya would his.

Sometimes he just wanted Sidney to ask, to make a demand about his faith, even if Zhenya would refuse. Sidney wasn’t afraid to ask about anything else, on the ice or arguing about dinner or even in bed, quickly growing bossy and opinionated in a way Zhenya adored. 

But when it came to orthodoxy, the common thread of their very match, Sidney shied away from making any demands, and the harder Zhenya pushed, the further Sidney seemed to retreat, until Zhenya found Sid talked less about his faith now that they were matched than ever before.

Zhenya wondered if it was to deflect attention off of Zhenya, from the media and the rest of the team. It would be just like Sidney, trying to protect him without admitting it was what he was doing.

It chagrinned Zhenya to admit, but Sidney had been right when he said Zhenya wasn’t prepared for the level of scrutiny their match would generate. They were the rising stars of the organization, fast becoming the faces of the franchise, and they’d already been dealing with the two-headed monster moniker. Now the narrative of two orthodox boys rising to the top, matched, the media couldn’t get enough, and it was wearing both of them down.

Just the thought of the original press conference was enough to give Zhenya an anxiety stomach ache just reliving it.

The guys in the room were also not always the best about it. 

They kept asking Zhenya sideways questions, hinting at what it was like to be matched to Sid, why he was orthodox now when he’d never been before.

“So Sidney is happy?” Sergei prompted.

“Yes, he is,” Zhenya said slowly. He thought Sidney was. He’d never thought of Sidney as a complicated person, but as they settled into matched life away from Cole Harbor, Sidney almost felt like he was keeping some of himself back.

And if preparing for the season was complicated, things were simple when they were alone. On nights they didn't eat with Mario and the family, they made dinner upstairs (or, Sidney insisted on making dinner, and Zhenya did the dishes), they took care of their little guest apartment above the Lemieux’s, they were slowly making a life together.

And if sometimes Zhenya wondered why Sidney refused to pray before meals like they’d done in Cole Harbor, or before bed, or why Sidney was so committed to homemaking tasks and refused to let Zhenya participate—well, a lot of that was probably the growing pains of learning to live with another person, to build a life with them.

Sidney hadn’t asked him to change his ways at all, in the end. He changed in the room, and he roughhoused with the guys, and if sometimes Sidney looked a little conflicted, and if sometimes Zhenya still felt like the guys held Sidney at a remove even though they didn’t do the same for Zhenya—well, it was Sidney who didn’t want Zhenya to follow the orthodox rules, even if made the reporters slightly more ruthless in their questioning of Sidney. _Did Sidney need special treatment? If Malkin was able to deal with the room, why didn’t Sidney?_

No, Zhenya didn’t believe that. If there were a real problem, Sid would tell him. He knew he would. 

Sergei raised an eyebrow. “Do you think he might be having problems? I know the media scrutiny has been intense, and some of the newer guys have been weird.”

“Not to me,” Zhenya said.

“Of course not to you. You may be in an orthodox match, but you don’t behave like an orthodox. Sidney’s still the only one on the team, for all intents and purposes.”

That made it sound like Zhenya wasn’t standing with him, and since he already felt guilty about it, it rankled. “Sidney hasn’t asked me to change anything.”

“Well, that’s kind of the secret of marriage. Sometimes you do stuff without someone asking you to.”

“Sid would say if he wanted something,” he told Sergei.

“He probably _should_ tell you if something’s wrong,” Sergei agreed. “But from one married guy to another—sometimes you have to dig a little deeper.”

But Gonch didn’t know what their match was like. Zhenya spent nearly every day with Sid, on the ice, giving interviews, doing community charity stuff with the organization, lounging around Mario’s, having sex—there wasn’t any time for Sidney to be keeping any secrets. Zhenya just knew it.

He was so confident, in fact, that later, when he and Sid were curled on the couch upstairs after eating dinner with the family, he thought he might as well get used to thinking about the future. It surprised him, how exciting it was to contemplate.

“Sid, how many kids you want?” It was usually more complicated for same-sex orthodox couples, but most communities had a process—adoption, surrogacy. Zhenya wasn’t overly

Which is why it hit him totally sideways when Sidney replied quietly, “Do you think I should leave the faith?”

Zhenya went still, then shifted so he could pull Sidney around to look him in the face. “Sid? What you saying?” For a moment he honest to gods thought Sidney might be ill. He pressed a hand to his forehead. “Sid, you okay?”

Sidney tiredly swatted his hand away. “I’m fine, geez. I’ve just been thinking—maybe it would be easier.”

Zhenya cupped his cheek, trying to get Sidney to look at him. “Why you're talking crazy.”

It was the wrong thing to say, Zhenya knew immediately. He watched Sidney’s face shutter.

“Forget I said anything.” Sidney threw a leg over Zhenya’s lap, pulling himself over him. He pressed a rough kiss to Zhenya’s mouth. “I want you.” He kissed him again, nipping at Zhenya’s bottom lip. He was a fast learner. It was almost enough to distract Zhenya, but not completely.

He pulled back. “Sid.” He pressed their foreheads together. “Sid, talk to me.” He heard the pleading in his own voice but couldn’t shake it.

“Why do we have to talk,” Sidney complained. He pressed his hips down, making them both draw in a breath. “Can’t we just—it’s so much easier that way.”

Zhenya let his head fall back on the couch.

God, they were dumb. Young and dumb. Probably too young and dumb to be matched, but there was no going back now, and besides, Zhenya didn’t want to.

Regardless, somewhere in Russia, his mother probably felt a sweep of self-righteousness and had no idea why.

He cupped his hands around Sidney’s head, pulling firmly at a curl in rebuke. “Because we match. We have to talk.”

“But the more we talk, the more it feels like a match wasn’t what you wanted, and I tricked you into this. That’s why I try to—to—give you it, whenever you want. Whenever you need.” 

It took a while for the meaning of that mess to sink in, and when it did, Zhenya felt sick.

“What you—Sid, what,” he garbled like an idiot. He’d been feeling comforted that it wasn’t just him bothering Sidney all the time, that Sidney was just as insatiable. “You not _want_...” Fuck, had Sidney just been forcing himself this whole time—and Zhenya hadn’t noticed, he’d just gone along with fucking his husband who didn’t really want it like some big evil dope—

Sidney’s brow puckered in confusion, and then his eyes went wide. He threw out his hands in a panic, grabbing Zhenya by the forearms and refusing to let go when Zhenya leaned away. “No, Geno, I definitely wanted to, that’s not what I mean,” he insisted, babbling slightly, “I want it, I always want it, that’s kind of the problem.”

Zhenya stopped moving and raised an eyebrow. “Always want?” he said, after a moment. He tried to bite back the grin, letting his tongue poke teasingly at his lower lip. “Always?”

Sidney was blushing, which was just the best. “You’re so annoying, no, not _always_ , stop, leave me alone,” he muttered. He pulled his arms back to cross sulkily across his own chest. 

Unable to resist now, Zhenya reeled him in, cuddling his stiff body against his chest. “It’s fine. I’m very good, not surprise you say.”

“Geno, that’s not—come on,” Sidney whined, but let himself be hugged.

Zhenya kissed the crown of his head, then top of his ear, then bent to press his lips to the corner of Sidney’s jaw. He felt Sidney shiver slightly, a wave of nearly unspeakable tenderness flooding through him. He couldn’t help but squeeze a little tighter. 

“Sid, it same for me,” he said quietly, right near Sidney’s ear. He ran his palm up and down the planes of Sidney’s back. “I want all the time, too.”

“Yeah?” Zhenya had no idea why Sidney sounded so cautiously pleased.

Zhenya snorted. “Of course, yes,” he groused. “You think I not want? I follow you around, like dog, always annoy.” 

“You’re not like that,” Sidney said firmly. “And I’m glad. I’m glad it’s not just me.” He sounded like he was smiling now, which was good.

“Then what you’re saying, before? We’re learning, talking, trying to be better. Match going good, why want to leave faith?”

“Things don’t always last.” Sidney gave a little shrug, sad, resigned. “Not even orthodox matches, and especially ones where only one person is orthodox.”

Zhenya leaned closer, alarmed. “Who say?” He’d never heard Sidney speak like that about their match. “Why you’re saying this?”

Sidney didn’t answer right away, and when he did, he dodged the question. “I always wanted to match. I expected it. This was always how my life was going to go.” He swallowed. “But you didn’t want this. This wasn’t what you wanted.”

Geno sighed. This again. 

“Maybe is surprise,” he allowed, biting back the urge to argue, already exhausted of this particular insecurity, although he was willing to spend the rest of his life proving it to Sidney if that’s what it took. 

And it was true, that while he hadn’t expected to match, he also had never expected for Sidney to become such a core component of his life so quickly. When he’d left Russia, his head had been a mess. All he knew about Sid was a few memories of some guy blowing everyone away at World Juniors, but that wasn’t even the real Sidney. Not the one before him now.

“But Sid, I do want marry, some day. Always what I want.” Maybe that marriage was part of some nonspecific future maybe ten or fifteen years in the future, but it had always been there. “I want family. Kids. How this happen with us, it’s different. But it’s not bad.”

“Yeah, but if the faith thing wasn’t part of it—maybe it would be easier.”

“Sid, you say you want to raise kids in faith, never want to give up. Why now?”

“I wasn’t matched to you then.” Sidney’s eyes were shining as he stared down at his hands, miserable. “I didn’t know what I would be losing.”

“But, Sid. We match. If you not orthodox, how we still match?”

“Oh, so you just matched with me because I’m orthodox?”

Gods, he was being impossible on purpose. Zhenya did his best not to roll his eyes. “No, not why. You know.”

“Do I, Geno? Do I really?”

“I match because I want. We talk about million times, I say again and again. Maybe if you not orthodox, happen different. We date, maybe. Take lots of time. But you are orthodox. So, I do different. Do it, because I want you.”

Sidney slanted his gaze down, and Zhenya hated how he wouldn’t even look at him.

He sighed, rubbing a hand through his hair. “Sid, I want you. I tell you. But if you not trust—what we doing here, really?”

Sidney’s head jerked up. His mouth fell open just a little as he stared. He swallowed like it was difficult to talk. “Are you—do you want to repudiate the match?”

What in the _fucking_ —what? Zhenya did is best not to tackle Sidney to the floor and just hold him there until he promised to stop being such a pain in the ass. “No, Sid! Fuck, why you always jump to worst thing? Saying I want you to trust. I want to help you trust. 

Sidney was scowling. He threw a hand in the air. “Well, that’s what I’m trying to say—if I have to choose between, you know, the faith and well, _you_ —I can’t _not_ choose you.” He glared at Zhenya hotly, like he hadn’t just offered to turn his back on his faith for nothing more than some misguided attempt to please Zhenya.

"Sid," Zhenya whispered. Overcome.

He didn't didn’t think he could be blamed for yanking Sidney to him and kissing him, fraught and messy until they were both trembling.

Suddenly there was nothing more important than getting him naked, and getting the lube out from under the cushions where it had gotten tossed earlier.

“Sidney,” Zhenya murmured, licking into his mouth, feeling both frustrated and terribly, terribly tender, wanting to make Sidney believe that Zhenya wanted to this, and punish him for doubting it. It was a delicate balance. Mostly it involved sucking Sidney’s tongue into his mouth, grabbing his ass, rubbing at his hole, trying to slow it down enough that he could drink in every sound Sidney was making.

Sidney tilted to the side, laying on his back along the couch. “Like this,” he gasped, pulling Zhenya over him.

Zhenya loved fucking Sidney in any way he could, but they both loved it this way, Zhenya on top, caging Sidney in, running his hands up and down Sidney’s body, Sidney wrapping his arms and legs around Zhenya as best he could. It wasn’t much for leverage, but they both enjoyed the friction, holding each other tight.

He prepped Sidney with shaking hands, easing in a finger, then two, crooking them, watching Sidney shift and move restlessly, already so familiar with each reaction, and the knowledge that he would only get more familiar, as time went by, that they would keep getting to know each other’s bodies, made him so hard, so suddenly, he had to stop for a second, catch his breath.

Sidney grabbed for Zhenya’s cock, squeezing tight. “Please, Geno, come on.”

Zhenya bit back a curse and lined up, pushing in, gasping, drinking in the way Sidney sucked in a breath as Zhenya bottomed out, his legs coming up to wrap tight around Zhenya’s lower back. 

They were tied up so close there wasn’t room to move and it turned into more of a slow, dirty grind. Zhenya couldn’t stop kissing him, trying to show him how precious he was, how he was would give Sidney _anything_ if he would only ask.

“Sid,” he murmured, pressing his mouth to his cheekbone, his jaw, back to his mouth. “You're mine, Sid.”

Zhenya grabbed the back of Sidney’s knee, changing the angle just enough, and Sidney threw his head back, gasping. “Gods,” he bit out. His cock was red and throbbing, it looked like it hurt. Zhenya couldn’t jerk him off and hold himself in this position. 

“Touch yourself,” he urged, scraping his teeth along Sidney’s nick. “Do it.”

Sidney moaned, grabbing his cock and stripping it in time with the grind of Zhenya’s cock, his hips jerking up to meet him. When Zhenya lifted his head, Sidney was staring at him, eyes bright, tears in the corner, like he was trying to give Zhenya everything, anything he wanted. Zhenya’s eyes didn’t feel too dry either, both of them unable to look away.

“Want you,” Zhenya grunted out, sweaty and feeling out of control. That was all he wanted. Sidney needed to know that.

It was so much, being inside of Sidney, being on top of him, holding him, knowing he was Zhenya’s. He felt such a responsibility to make him happy, to feel safe and content, and at the very least safe enough to be in his faith without feeling obligated to change for Zhenya’s sake. When Zhenya didn’t even want him to _change_. 

“Sid,” he murmured. His hips were jerking, already so close to the end. He slipped into Russian, words just pouring out. “I want you. I want _you_. You’re all I want, just as you are, you don’t have to be anything different, I love you, I want _you_.” 

Sidney made a harsh, high-pitched sound, stripping his cock so fast it looked painful. “Geno, oh my gods, _Geno_.”

Zhenya came with his face buried in Sidney’s neck, shaking, arms wrapped under his back so he could hold him as tight as he could, his weight mostly trapping Sidney’s hand on his cock. He made a move to help but Sidney stopped him, thrusting up against Zhenya’s stomach until he went still, keening, and came.

They both went limp, Zhenya probably way too heavy, but Sidney wasn’t complaining yet, and they just lay there, breathing at each other, until their heart rates finally began to come down. 

His brain was still sparking and Sidney was shaking through his own orgasm. He turned Sidney’s face gently by the jaw, kissing him even as he moaned into Zhenya’s mouth.

They pulled back just slightly, just enough to stare at each other, wide-eyed.

And suddenly it was bursting out of him, so forcefully he wasn’t sure how he’d kept from saying it in English until now. 

“Sid, I match because I love you,” Zhenya said in a rush, still out of breath. “Okay if you do for faith, or other reason. But I’m choose because I love you.” He kissed Sidney again, unable to stop. “I love you.” Now that it was out, it was a relief to say.

Sidney was staring at him, mouth pursed like he’d forgotten he’d left it that way. 

Zhenya went in to kiss him but Sidney pulled away, holding Zhenya back, so Zhenya waited as Sidney said, to his eternal surprise—

“I _do_ love you." Sidney sounded surprised at himself, but certain. “I never really—I mean, of course matched couples love one another, I mean, like my parents. But it was always the match first, you know, building from that, and I never thought about—I do.” He swallowed, meeting Zhenya’s eyes. He looked nervous for some reason. “I love you, too.”

Then they were kissing again. They got lost in it for a while.

Sidney pulled back all of a sudden, looking like he was steeling himself for something. Then he said, eyes closed like he just needed to get it out, “You don’t have to be orthodox, but I want you to stop touching everyone else. Geno, I’m sorry, but that’s just the way I want it to be.” 

He stood stiffly, like he expected Zhenya to laugh in his face. Like Zhenya wasn’t ready to wrap him up and hold him tight against his chest forever until they were both dead. Like he wasn’t _asking_  Zhenya for something important about his faith that he wanted, for once.

“Touch? Like, how?” Zhenya thought he had an idea, but he wanted to hear Sidney say it, too.

“Like, you had your arms around Tanger the other day! Just in your under armor, and his hands were all over you, and I don’t like it.”

“Sidney.” 

“And I know that’s probably not fair, and I’m sorry, and you don’t have to believe what I believe, but I still think we should follow some of the same rules—”

“ _Sidney_.”

“What?” 

Zhenya scooted closer, so they were practically sharing the same pillow. “That’s okay.”

Sidney frowned, like he’d expected more of a fight. But Zhenya felt nothing but deep relief. 

“You want something, you ask. I say yes or no. But ask, first. That’s what this is. What we’re doing.” Zhenya tried to look as serious as possible. “I want you to ask. Promise me you’ll ask.”

Biting his lip, Sidney nodded. “I promise. I promise I’ll try.”

Zhenya nodded and pulled him closer, yanking a blanket off the floor to cover them both.

"I really am happy," Sidney said quietly. Zhenya tucked that away, needing to hear it more than he'd realized.

"Me, too," he said.

He wasn’t stupid, and he got the feeling the enormity of the future was weighing on them both.

Eventually things would change again, Zhenya knew. Things might get more complicated with the media, and they might need to move out of Mario’s house one day, and hopefully there would be kids some day, and his own parents would come around and come stay, and probably Sidney’s parents would move to Pittsburgh, Troy and all, and things would go through waves, getting more complicated and simpler, in fits and starts, and they would probably look back on this time as the simplest their match had ever been. The most carefree, even if it felt so fraught and filled with complications.

“This is our season,” Zhenya promised.

Sidney smiled. “Our season,” he repeated, like he really believed Zhenya. Like they were wishing it forth just with the power of their words. 

Zhenya wasn’t predisposed to looking ahead to the future. He specialized in the immediate present. Today. This season. This year.

And as he looked down at Sidney, smiling up at him, sleepy and relived and content, he just knew: This was going to be their year.

 

*

 

Eventually, when Sidney was hoisting the cup above his head, as he glanced at Geno by his side on the ice, face incandescent with joy, he made sure to remember to give a silent prayer of thanks to the gods. They had blessed him, after all.

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's the end, friends! I appreciate everyone being so patient when it took me a million years to get this chapter up. I had much different plans for this fic than how it ultimately ended up, but it did _end_ , finally, which feels like the most important part, so I'm happy with that.
> 
> if I can be annoying for a moment - I think I struggled so much because in the end, even with romantic nonsense like fanfic, it feels more hand-wavey to say that two early twenty-somethings can fall in love and get married and have their happily-ever-after without indicating that there will be STRUGGLES and STRIFE and probably it's going to be really hard and I guess I got jammed because I was trying to CONVEY THAT DIFFICULTY but also, I wanted to end on an open note, with room for interpretation (but still hopeful) and touch on how the invincibility of youth is a shield of its own, which became A Lot To Live Up To and basically - I was overthinking it, my dudes. this is a fanfic. I need to Lighten Up, I think.
> 
> tumblr at ohjafeeljadefinitelyfeel.tumblr.com
> 
> I love you all, your souls are stars.

**Author's Note:**

> \- this is wildly hand-wavey of a lot of things - the Pens' 2006-2007 season, Malkin's English fluency, these actual real people's ( _yikes_ ) personalities, and Hockey in general. I love watching hockey but I don't have a head for stats and I never played so my rule comprehension is...not great. I did my best with my very real limitations.  
> \- I love the movie Arranged and everyone should go watch that right now it's on Netflix.  
> \- the orthodox religion referred to in this fic is 100 percent made up and not meant to refer to Judaism (which I wanted to clarify from how the term 'orthodox' is used here) any other modern faith. it's like a vague homage to paganism but mostly it's just fucking made the fuck up.  
> ETA 1/27/18 - thanks to everyone who has pointed out the typos and repeated sentences in this fic (which sometimes happens when I paste docs into AO3) over the past few months. this wasn't beta'd, and honestly it was difficult to finish and I'm not thrilled with it, so reviewing it again to catch these mistakes was nearly impossible, because I'm so ambivalent about the finished product. but, I was able to find a program to catch all the repeated sentences and they should be gone now. any other shitty writing is just my own fault. but, if you see any more, let me know on Tumblr or something. thanks for your patience!


End file.
